


Key Witness

by ProcrastinatingSab



Series: Bad Things Happen Bingo [5]
Category: Prodigal Son (TV 2019)
Genre: Bad Things Happen Bingo, F/M, Gil Arroyo Needs a Hug, Hurt/Comfort, Kidnapping and blackmail, Malcolm Bright Needs a Hug, Malcolm Bright Whump, Threats of Rape/Non-Con, Whump, actually more hurt than comfort lol, non-con elements, psychological torment
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-28
Updated: 2021-02-19
Packaged: 2021-03-07 20:34:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 21,034
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26703778
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ProcrastinatingSab/pseuds/ProcrastinatingSab
Summary: They left Gil with no other options.He must do what they asked, or he will lose Malcolm forever.(No spoilers for Season 2)~~~BTHB:Captivity (ch1.) Blackmail (ch2.)
Series: Bad Things Happen Bingo [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1687015
Comments: 111
Kudos: 123





	1. Waking Up

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Shameful_Indulgence](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shameful_Indulgence/gifts).



> Shinieee!!! This fic was born from our many lovely conversations (which I cherish with all my heart) <3 hhehehe I really hope you like it.

###  Chapter 1: Waking Up

When Malcolm wakes up, he struggles to remember how he fell asleep in the first place. He's nauseous, disoriented, and his world is swimming in pain so strong that he doesn't dare open his eyes. Fighting the waves of nausea that keep crashing at him like an angry tide at sea, Malcolm realizes that the world isn't spinning… but he's the one moving. He's being _dragged_. 

His arms were wrenched above him, held with a grip like iron as someone.. or something drags him roughly across a stony path. Through the fog that clouds his mind, Malcolm guesses that two people are moving him, their hands are wrapped around each wrist in a bruising hold, and they are pulling so strongly that he feels his joints will pop out of their sockets. Plus, he's moving way too fast to be dragged only by one person. It has to be two.

Malcolm tries to shout for help, but no sound comes out. He groggily opens his eyes to try to get an indication of where he is, where he's going, but he is greeted by more darkness. It doesn't make sense because he can hear the sound of a neon light flickering. Malcolm panics- he's gagged and blindfolded and is dragged by people he has no recollection of. He squirms, trying to free his hands, but their grip is firm and strong, and he’s weak and clearly at a disadvantage. 

Heart racing, Malcolm can do nothing but allow himself to be pulled along, feeling the floor underneath him, chafing at his feet, breaking his skin, and abusing his body. The men above him grunt as they pull him and the _indignation_ of it all sends the blood rushing to his face, making him flush.

They’re hauling him across the concrete floors like a sack of potatoes, like he’s some commodity. They don’t even react when he cries out, and don't acknowledge him when he struggles. No one bothers to lift him as his soles keep arresting their momentum. They know he’s awake, that they can pull him to his feet and force him to _walk,_ and yet they prefer this method. Dehumanizing him, just like the tape and the blindfold. The technique makes him think these men are professional. It doesn’t bode well for him.

The speed at which they’re moving slows down, and Malcolm guesses that they probably reached their destination. A door creaks, the temperature drops as they enter another room, and he feels the flooring under him change from the hard and unforgiving concrete to sleek ceramic.

Then the dragging stops. 

Malcolm expects them to drop his arms, _wishes that they do,_ because he can feel his shoulders aching and his abused muscles begging for a reprieve. Instead, he is roughly pulled to his feet. 

He tries to struggle, but a fist makes contact with his stomach, and he almost doubles over with the pain. It is all the distraction they need to lift up his arms. Malcolm feels a coarse thick rope loop around each wrist, and then the loops clench tight, holding his arms above his head, restraining him, keeping him upright.

Suddenly the mysterious hands are off him, and Malcolm's stomach drops. He's standing in the middle of nowhere, blindfolded, gagged, arms incapacitated above him, bare to all threats with no way to protect himself. He swallows thickly, trying to hatch any plan that can improve his situation.

The men are still next to him. He can feel one of them behind him, tugging at his restraints, making sure the rope is tight enough. The other is standing right in front of him- Malcolm can feel the man’s stinking breath over his face. 

He knows what he’s about to do is futile and his chances of success are below zero, and yet he must try. Malcolm lashes out blindly. He sends his head back with all the force he can muster, and he knows that it connects with the man's face because he roars with pain. While the first is indisposed and before the other henchman reacts, Malcolm kicks his leg forward hopefully aiming for the man’s abdomen. His foot hits flesh and the man cries out. 

For a few moments, all he hears is the labored breathing of the men around him. One of them keeps uttering one blasphemous curse after another while the other is just grunting and whimpering. Maybe that headbutt was too strong. 

Knowing that time is of the essence, Malcolm tugs on his bonds tries to test their resolve. It doesn’t need a profiler to know that he’ll pay dearly for what he just did, and if he stays trapped this way, he’ll have no way to protect himself. It’ll be all for nothing.

Malcolm grasps the rope, and as he attempts to lift himself, strong hands grab his head and stubby fingers clasp around his neck. Before he can take in what happened, the hands force his head down and his stomach meets his assailant's knees. 

Malcolm tries to scream, but his cry only comes out choked, muffled, and pathetic. The impact is agony, and the pain is too much; it sends his legs crumbling under him. The rope around his wrists goes taut, holding him upright, preventing him from falling to the floor and forcing his arms to carry his weight.

He scrambles, trying to get his feet back under him to alleviate the pain in his arms. But he's so slow, and a hand lands on his shoulder, stopping him from teetering. It is all the warning Malcolm gets before strong knuckles connect with his sternum, pushing all the air out of his lungs.

Malcolm wheezes and chokes. He tries to inhale, but the tape covering his mouth is relentless and the oxygen coming through his nose isn't enough. The agonizing pain is so intense, and a few tears prick at the corner of his eyes, the only outlet against the abuse his torso just endured. He heaves, gasping as the pain synapses keep firing and sending distress signals to his brain. Malcolm has no way to make it stop, to make it better. He can only breathe through the compounded pain in his stomach and chest. He must only focus on his breathing.

The lack of air makes him dizzy, and he feels himself fading, losing consciousness as he swings. He's barely aware of the men laughing, barely registers it when their footsteps fade away, and he's left alone.

Malcolm stays in his pain limbo for a few moments before his shoulders cry out under the pressure of his weight. Slowly, he pushes himself up again and finds his footing on the cold floor below him. 

Taking one calming breath after the other, Malcolm tries to regulate his breathing, coaching himself to breath against the pain. He roots his feet on the ground...

And he waits. 

Surely whoever has him will make themselves known now, won’t they?

Malcolm waits for someone to come and tell him why he's here, but no one does. The two men who transported him were clearly henchmen, following someone's orders… _who_? He doesn’t know yet. 

He tries to remember what happened before he woke up, and faintly recalls some details. He was leaving the precinct. Gil offered to drive him, but he wanted to walk, clear his mind. He remembers how close he was to his loft when an inconspicuous van rolled up next to him. 

It all then happened so quickly. The door slid open, revealing two men who jumped out and pounced on him. He tried to fight, but a third injected something in his neck, and his world tilted. The last thing he remembers was them loading him back in the van, helpless… 

He should have taken Gil’s offer to drive him home. Or maybe that would have put him in danger, too? Maybe it’s good that he was alone then, Malcolm thinks gratefully and goes back to his analysis.

He’s dealing with experts, Malcolm realizes as he analyzes his own kidnapping. But Major Crimes aren’t working a case, there isn’t any killer they are after, and he hasn’t gone digging in any cold cases recently. 

_Just what have you gotten yourself into this time_ , Malcolm thinks. _What have you done to these people?_

Time passes as he waits. Malcolm starts to count. Every sixty makes one minute, and every minute is closer to an hour.

After sixty-eight minutes, he just gives up.

His head feels so heavy, and Malcolm finds himself swaying before he adjusts himself. Now that he's been left strung up like this all alone, he thinks that attacking those men was a stupid idea. All it brought him was more pain and no improvement to his situation.

He has no clear concept of time but it feels so long since he was left here in the middle of nowhere, and he is starting to feel numb and tired. He’s lost feeling in his hands, and his legs hurt from standing. His knees shake, and his body trembles.

No one comes... 

No one tells him why he was taken. Or who took him. No one speaks to him. He’s left wondering in the dark without a single clue. 

He can't call out, he can't see or hear anything. And soon, he feels his body twitching with the cold.

Malcolm shivers. His coat and jacket are gone, and so are his shoes and socks, but that’s not the reason it's cold. He's realized that his captors have positioned him in the direction of an air current. It feels like he was made to stand here by design. This is another feature of his prison.

_The cold._

Malcolm hates it. 

He hates how he's slowly getting tired. He hates how his stamina is seeping away bit by bit, replaced by exhaustion. It's all so ridiculous because no one is hurting him, no one is doing _anything_ to him. But standing like this is torture in itself, and Malcolm contemplates slumping in his restraints. Yet, he knows the repercussions of hanging by his arms, so he keeps shuffling on his feet, changing his weight distribution, and hopes that anyone will _just come and talk to him!!_

After what feels like ages, he rests his head on one arm and closes his eyes. It's the only kind of rest he'll be getting tonight.

  
  



	2. The Phone Call

### Chapter 2: The Phone Call

When Gil enters the precinct this morning, he’s not sporting his usual turtleneck and slacks. Instead, he’s uniquely dressed in a suit that makes him look a lot like his profiler— short of the fact that Malcolm’s probably costs four times as much. 

"Looking good boss," Dani smirks when he passes by, and Gil smiles in turn. The way he dresses for the court is critical— it will determine how the jury perceives him, and Gil wants to look his best self. After all, his testimony is essential for this case.

It isn't unusual that detectives get called to testify for cases. Gil has done it so many times that it's just second nature to him by now. But this case is different. The case of Vincent Panetta vs. The People has been receiving a great deal of attention lately. The trial of the notorious crime leader is the talk of every news outlet in the city. Gil hasn't been involved in a case this big since the trial of the Surgeon.

The list of allegations against Panetta was a mile long and varied from drug dealing to money laundering. While he had been arrested many times before, the cases against him had always crumbled to dust. The evidence was always tampered with or misplaced, and witnesses either backed out or changed their testimonies. No charge ever stuck, no case was ever strong enough for them to go to trial. And the same people who put the cuffs on him have to watch as he walks out, each time with a smug smile plastered across his face. 

Well, no more. This time is different. 

This time they have him for murder. It was the icing on the top, because the prosecution’s office had been building a case for so long, and they finally have some concrete evidence that could put him behind bars for a very long time. They also have the best witness for their case. The Major Crimes lieutenant. _Gil._ And he will make sure he puts this man away for good. Panetta has terrorized enough people, ruined enough lives. 

Gil checks his watch— almost nine— and notes that Malcolm should be here soon. Last night, he practically begged Gil to come with him to the courthouse. The kid has been helping him prep— cross-examining him, giving him pointers about his body language and speech patterns to use. He knows it may not be necessary, but Malcolm seemed so keen to help, and Gil didn't have the heart to turn him down. After all, who's better to give him pointers than someone who makes a living off reading people? 

Gil helps himself to a cup of coffee in his favorite Yankees mug and goes into his office. The trial won’t start before noon. Factoring in the traffic, he estimates he has around an hour or so before leaving for the courthouse, so he sets to work. When he’s halfway through his third report, his phone buzzes, and Gil immediately picks it up. It was a habit born after Malcolm left for Harvard. No matter how busy Gil is, he _always_ keeps his phone within reach, with the sound on, just in case the kid decides to call or text him. The message Gil receives is from a blocked number. He unlocks his phone and checks it. 

> **𝚃𝚠𝚘 𝚙𝚎𝚘𝚙𝚕𝚎 𝚌𝚊𝚗 𝚔𝚎𝚎𝚙 𝚊 𝚜𝚎𝚌𝚛𝚎𝚝 𝚠𝚑𝚎𝚗 𝚘𝚗𝚎 𝚘𝚏 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚖 𝚒𝚜 𝚍𝚎𝚊𝚍.**

Gil frowns in confusion before another message shoots through.

> **𝙾𝚛 𝚠𝚑𝚎𝚗 𝚘𝚗𝚎 𝚘𝚏 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚖 𝚑𝚊𝚜 𝚜𝚘𝚖𝚎𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚘𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚗𝚎𝚎𝚍𝚜 ;)**

And another.

> **𝙷𝚘𝚠 𝚒𝚜 𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚝𝚎𝚊𝚖 𝚍𝚘𝚒𝚗𝚐, 𝙻𝚒𝚎𝚞𝚝𝚎𝚗𝚊𝚗𝚝?**

The last message sends chills down his spine. It's a threat. He knows that for sure... but a threat for….what? He looks up. 

Dani is sitting at her desk, as usual, finalizing her paperwork for their most recent case. JT has just left the precinct— another homicide. Because of the trial, Gil was going to sit this one out, leaving JT in charge. 

And Malcolm… Malcolm is on his way. He should be here any minute now. Gil looks at his watch and finds that it’s half-past nine. He was so busy with the paperwork that he didn’t keep track of the time. Gil’s breath catches. 

_Malcolm is late._

An overwhelming feeling of foreboding makes his stomach sink. He fumbles through his contacts to call the profiler just as another message comes through. From Malcolm. A photo attachment. 

Gil’s hand trembles as he opens the picture, and when he does, his heart skips a beat. He gapes at the image before him, as an avalanche of feelings dawn on him. Anger. Fear. Hatred. Worry. Guilt. They come crashing down at him, and he is gasping because there isn't enough air in the room. It's too hot … stifling… suffocating all of a sudden, but Gil needs to breathe and keep it cool. He needs to be able to think.. because what he sees needs him to get a grip.

Because he sees Malcolm.

No, he doesn’t really _see_ him since the kid’s face is almost obscured behind a blindfold and the duct tape over his mouth. _But it is Malcolm_. Gil doesn’t need to see the kid’s face to recognize him. 

Malcolm is standing in an empty room with his hands secured above his head. His head is slumped on his chest, and Gil's dying to see his face. _How long has he been standing, strung up like that? Is he in pain? He's going to find whoever sent him this..._

He zooms in on the picture but can’t see beyond the basic details that the photo is giving him... and it’s not enough! 

_It’s not!_

Gil notices his jacket and shoes are missing, and he thinks he's wearing the same tie and suit from the day before. The thought makes his head swim— Malcolm never even made it home last night. Has he been with them all night? Did they keep him in this position all this time? 

Gil can't stop looking at the kid, stares at him like there are some clues he hasn’t found yet. He doesn't even know if the photo was taken now or earlier. For all he knows, Malcolm could be worse off; he could be dead already. Gil shudders and banishes the thought from his mind.

It can’t have been more than five minutes since he received this picture before the phone buzzes again. A text from the same blocked number again. 

> **𝙰𝚛𝚎 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚊𝚕𝚘𝚗𝚎, 𝙻𝚒𝚎𝚞𝚝𝚎𝚗𝚊𝚗𝚝? 𝚃𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚔 𝚠𝚎 𝚌𝚊𝚗 𝚝𝚊𝚕𝚔?** 💋

Gil looks at the message. He didn’t expect that they'd contact him this soon. He scrambles to his feet and closes his office door. Once he’s sure he will not be interrupted, he settles back in his chair and calls Malcolm’s phone. 

The first time it rings once before it gets cut. 

The second time Gil dials it, he gets a _disconnected_ message, and he feels like throwing his phone out of the window.

Before he does anything he will regret, his phone rings; it’s the blocked number. He picks up before his ringtone starts playing. 

He’s prepared for this. He knows how these cases work and what kind of voice will meet him at the other end of the line. Masked, modulated. So he tries to keep a cool head when he answers for Malcolm’s sake. 

“Where is he? And what do you want?” Gil bites his tongue because that was the _exact_ _opposite_ of what he intended to do. But his heart is beating so fast, and he wants to talk to the kid, make sure he's okay… that he’s _alive_. 

The sound that greets him is so unexpected that he’s taken aback. It’s a woman who sings his name. “Ahhh, Lieutenant Gil Arroyo! Oh my, what a pleasure!” 

Gil stammers for a second, his mouth opens and closes, but nothing comes out. A woman. A million different possibilities jump at him. Who is she?

Before he finds his voice, the woman on the line continues. "Pray, did you get my lovely little gift?"

 _Gift?_ He clenches his hand. “Where is Malcolm _Bright_?” he forces out his question. 

“Straight to business,” she audibly sighs. “You _men_ and your work… _Always obsessed with business_. It’s why my poor Vinny isn’t here with me right now.” 

The connection slams into Gil like a freight train. He curses himself for not connecting the dots earlier. In his defense, the kid gets himself in trouble on a daily basis. But this time, it's not Malcolm's fault. _It’s Gil’s._ This is about Vincent Panetta, and the woman on the phone is no doubt his girlfriend. Gil remembers he read about her in the case files. Alexia Cooper. 

Ok, this he can work with. If he knows his enemy, he knows how to deal with them. He's halfway out of his chair to ask Dani to trace the call when the sultry voice rings in his ear. "Oh! And I have eyes on you, Lieutenant, so maybe you don't want to involve your team in this one. It's a family matter, after all, one family to another, right? Don't you love him like your son?"

Gil stops, bites his lips so hard he tastes blood. He knows the right course of action here; he _needs_ to open that door and hail Dani to track the call. He should have a cyber team track Malcolm’s phone or trace this call while he distracts the woman. 

And _yet…_

Yet, Gil finds himself frozen underneath the weight of her threat, feels the fear grip at his heart, and it suffocates him. He's never been in the situation himself, and the sympathetic part of him feels bad for all the times he admonished the extorted parties of K&R victims when they went behind the NYPD's back.

No. He can't do anything that could harm Malcolm. Not unless he's sure the kid is okay _._

“... Anyway,” she continues when Gil says nothing. “Yes, your boy is here with me. He’s quite the dashing young man, isn’t he? _Very_ handsome. One might even say he’s as handsome as my Vinny.”

“I need to speak with him,” Gil says tightly. 

"I'm afraid he's not in the mood for a chat at the moment… are you hon?" She coos and Gil's blood boils at the way she's speaking to Malcolm. He strains his ear to hear what's happening at the other end of the line, but there is nothing, no sound from Malcolm… _nada_.

“I need to know _he’s alive_ ,” he tries again, desperate for any assurance.

"The picture will have to do Lieutenant," the woman says nonchalantly. Gil picks up on the sound of her heels, clicking on the ground. She's moving. "Oh? Can I call you Gil?" She doesn't wait for his answer as she continues to speak. "The picture will have to do, _Gil._ You just give me what I want, and you can have your boy back.”

“What do you want?” he whispers even though he knows exactly what she wants.

She doesn’t speak for a while, the sound of her heels echoing off the walls. Gil waits on the line, leg bouncing under the desk, waiting for her to reply. 

After some time, she speaks, "Nothing much… I already told you. I really miss Vinny, and I just can't let him go to prison. He's my entire world."

“Yes?” Gil presses. 

"So bring him back," she snaps, and the change in her tone slaps Gil in the face. "I hear the trajectory of the case can change dramatically if the key witness were to contradict his statement," she says slowly and menacingly, losing all her sweetness.

Gil’s stomach plummets. 

While his stomach is disappearing through the floor, his ears pick up something on the line; he finally hears _Malcolm._ At the mention of the case, the kid started speaking, mumbling incoherently behind the tape Gil knows is covering his mouth. 

It’s obvious that Malcolm doesn’t want him to do what she’s asking. The kid has no sense of self-preservation. Gil knows what Malcolm is telling him without understanding any of it. _“Don’t do it, Gil.”_

Before Gil can cherish the fact that he’s alive, or feel anger at how he’s gagged or fear for his life, a loud ear-splitting sound makes him flinch. 

_A slap_.

Malcolm moans and falls silent. Gil's rage reaches its maximum point as he hears the woman speak to him. "Hush now, _Malcolm,”_ she says to him like an impudent child. "The grown-ups are talking."

Malcolm's breathing hitches, but he stays silent.

Gil can’t believe he hasn't snapped at her yet called her names and given her a piece of his mind. Somehow, the trained police Lieutenant in him subconsciously knows how to keep his reaction at bay. This second nature instinct in him is also egging him to keep the conversation going, to try and speak to Malcolm, to get any clue about where they're keeping him. He decides to change his approach in hopes of getting more intel.

“B--but the case isn’t just built on my testimony! It won’t bring Panetta back.”

“Just do your part and don’t worry about the rest,” she tells him calmly. 

"I just need to speak to him. How do I guarantee you won't hurt him," Gil plays the distraught card, and he doesn't know how much of it is actually an act. Truth be told, he's terrified, scared that she hangs up on him. He feels as though Malcolm's life is hanging on that line, and if she hangs up, he won't be able to see the kid again.

"Don't you worry, Gil, I won't hurt your boy... _as long as you do what I want._ And I want Vinny back! I do _really really_ miss him,” she coos again and laughs at something. 

Gil wants to break something. Her carefree nonchalant attitude is making him want to strangle her with his bare hands. She’s dealing with the situation like it’s a game, like she’s not threatening to kill a police consultant, like Malcolm isn’t bound and gagged next to her. Gil has no doubt in his mind that she means every word she’s spoken. Unhinged as she sounds, the woman is dangerous and in control. He also assumes she’s getting help from Panetta’s men. 

“Chop chop, Gil. It’s almost time for you to leave for the courthouse. I have eyes everywhere and will be waiting for the news. _But_ in the meantime, Malcolm here can keep me company…" she sighs dramatically, and Gil stops breathing. "As I said, he's a _very_ handsome man."

“Wait! Don’t—” 

“Toodles!” She hangs up, leaving Gil shaking in his seat, unable to breathe or think. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey! Sorry I missed last week's update! I'm juggling two fics this time, which is _new to me_ , but also fun :) If you liked this, you can check out my whumptober multichapter fic [ Sanctify 🩸 ](https://archiveofourown.org/works/26779462/chapters/65327005)
> 
>   
> Also, this chapter will be a double entry. 
> 
> 1) A BTHB square for blackmail  
> 2) Whumptober prompt No 17. I DID NOT SEE THAT COMING  
>  **Blackmail** | Dirty Secret | Wrongfully Accused


	3. The Silence is Broken

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please check the additional tags before reading this chapter. I have added a couple!

### Chapter 3: The Silence is Broken 

Malcolm lost feeling in his hands some time ago. At first, there was pain, then a tingling sensation, eventually ending with complete numbness. It's not just his hands and bloody wrists that are hurting. The rigidity of his position feels like it is straining every muscle and joint in his body; His shoulders are aching, his neck is stiff, and his chest is still throbbing with a vengeance. Each breath is a miracle, and the fatigue threatens to consume him and pull him under. 

But more than all that, he has been standing for so long, smothered in darkness and unnerving silence.... alone.  _ This, _ above all else, is what threatens to undo him.

_ It could have been worse,  _ he consoles himself for the umpteenth time. 

At first, he tried to angle his hands to reach his blindfold and remove it, but his arms were raised high enough that he couldn’t reach. He tried to work the tape over his mouth with his tongue, but it was as dry as sand. He got nowhere with either attempt, and after some time, he stopped, determined not to exert himself more than needed. 

He still has no idea what he’s doing here or how much time has passed since his captors left him standing. He just knows it’s been  _ long enough _ .

Malcolm shifts his weight, wincing as his overstretched muscles sing with relief at the change of position.

Apart from the _whish_ _whoosh_ sound of the air current Malcolm is trussed up in front of, he has been waiting in utter silence. 

But then, finally, he picks up a sound. Faint. Far away. 

Click ... clack.

What is it? Malcolm tilts his head, straining his ears to listen. 

Click… clack… click…. clack 

The timing of the mystery sound is rhythmic and even, and as it gets closer and begins to echo, Malcolm is able to identify the source of the sound in his exhausted mind.

Heels. Heels clicking on concrete— now ceramics. 

The owner of the heels walks until they are a few feet away from Malcolm— or so he estimates— before the sound stops. Malcolm waits for them to speak, say something. 

Nothing. Eerie silence. 

Malcolm is sure no one left. Is he being watched?  _ Or did he imagine the sound? Is he hallucinating?  _

The frustration builds in his chest and threatens to suffocate him. The last thing he needs is his mind playing tricks on him. He needs to be in his right mind when they eventually speak to him. He needs to maintain whatever little control he still has. Most importantly, he needs to have the required agility and right state of mind to escape when the chance presents itself. So he starts counting again, slowing his breaths, regulating them until he’s successful… only then is he able to pick up the sound of someone else breathing. 

He  _ wasn’t _ hallucinating. 

Malcolm wonders why he’s being watched, ponders on the psychology of the person standing in front of him. They could be watching him for various reasons that start with sadism and end with indifference. Do they enjoy the power and control his sense of helplessness provides? Are they observing him clinically, studying him with detachment, inspecting him as one would an object? Is his discomfort the goal, or is it a by-product of their indifference towards him? 

Certainly, the tape, the blindfold, and being left isolated could be interpreted as techniques to wear him down and disorient him— his racing heart and shallow breaths seemed proof of their effectiveness with every passing second. But it could also mean something else: A coping mechanism that justifies whatever they plan to do with him next. If Malcolm can’t talk or look into their eyes, then is he even human?

He doesn’t have enough information to know for sure, though. The only profile he is able to conjure is a web of contradictions, leaving more questions than answers. Without anyone speaking, without his eyes to analyze, he remains in the dark. Swallowing his pride, he moans behind the tape in an attempt to get a reaction from the person. 

For a few moments, nothing happens, then he senses a slight shift in the air around him. It’s all the warning he gets before warm hands grab his chin. The touch, so intimate, so unexpected, startles him. A woman. Her long delicate fingers caress his cheek, and Malcolm flinches. He hates the intimacy of her touch, wants her hands off him. She snickers at his reaction but doesn’t say a word. Instead, she traces her fingers along his chest, her hands exploring, and unwelcome. She’s  _ too _ near, and he can feel her sweet breath on his face. Malcolm wants to push away, but he forces himself to stand still, chooses to ignore his discomfort for the sake of getting as much information as he can about her. 

Her exploratory hands are off him, but before he exhales in relief, she places a finger under his ear. It traces along the side of his jaw and stops right under his chin, where it lingers for a few moments. Then it pushes gently, lifting his face. He can’t stop himself; his body reacts before his mind stops him, and Malcolm takes a step back. He tries to wrench his head away, but her other hand fists in his hair and twists, keeping it in position. Malcolm is surprised by this sudden display of violence. Her delicate light touch quickly turned rough and angry at his first show of defiance. This abrupt change spoke of a troubled nature and a conflicted mind, but mainly a desire for control. Malcolm almost laughs at himself—he’s so out of options that he’s profiling  _ a finger _ . 

The pressure on his skull is strong, unrelenting, and even when he stops fighting, she doesn’t relax her hold. Unable to say a word and not wanting to humiliate himself with incoherent mumbles, Malcolm settles for a deep growl… which gets obscured by the tape anyway. She doesn’t react this time. Doesn’t laugh or mockbut doesn’t shy away either. Her hands remain as they are, holding him in place, and Malcolm wonders what can she possibly be looking at with his eyes covered. After a few moments, she releases him with no warning. 

Malcolm is relieved when she moves away, more so than he cares to admit. Yet her touch, though invasive, steadied him in a way he can’t explain. With her gone, he is back in that dark void of nothingness, swaying, fighting to gain his equilibrium. He  _ almost  _ craves that touch, if only so he won’t be alone again. Malcolm shudders at the thought, horrified with himself for even thinking it, and he banishes it as soon as it crosses his mind. 

Her touch doesn’t return, but Malcolm can sense she’s still there, watching. She’s taken off her heels now. Smart woman, he thinks. With the ability to pace the floor without making a sound, she can catch him off guard. It’s unsettling, and he knows that’s exactly why she did it. 

He waits. 

She grabs his numb hand, and the motion causes a cascade of tiny needles stabbing into his skin. Malcolm grits his teeth and inhales sharply as the nerves in his hand flare like fire to the added pressure. She presses his finger against something, and he hears a click—his _ phone _ . 

Malcolm shivers, hating how she has access to everything important to him right now. Pictures, contacts, and information that can be used to hurt him or those he loves. He starts to speak again, a clear signal that he wants this gag off,  _ please.  _ What comes out is incoherent jargon that only makes her giggle— a soft, playful sound. 

She  **_giggles_ ** **…**

Malcolm knew this would happen, yet he can’t stop the furious flush that colors his neck. He hears the sound of the camera flicking, and his blood runs cold. He stiffens. Snapping a picture can mean many things. 

This could be a ransom situation; after all, his mother’s one of wealthiest people in the city. Blackmail was another possibility, or revenge—someone getting back at The Surgeon…  _ maybe? _ She could be sending proof to someone else who wanted him kidnapped. Maybe she’s keeping a catalog of her victims. Or perhaps he’s being trafficked. Endless options arise from a photo and an unwanted touch. Without his eyes, Malcolm’s running blind on a million profile at once. And he can’t eliminate any. The mental stress of this alone is staggering. 

Slipping her heels back on, Malcolm can now hear his captor sauntering around. In the dead silence of the room, each footfall is a loud boom. She circles him twice— he feels she’s close but, mercifully, not as close as she was before. It’s unsettling how she has total control over him. It makes him uneasy, filling his soul with morbid dread. 

After the second rotation, she starts to walk away, the sound of her heels echoing and fading into the background. 

* * *

Malcolm tries to drown his pain and frustration by keeping his mind busy. He thinks of his brief encounter with his captor. He goes over the details, and analyzes everything that happened, every little touch, every laugh or huff. He’s so lost in his thoughts that he almost doesn’t feel the passage of time. 

Then the woman is back, and this time, she reveals her voice. “Hello, Malcolm,” she sings his name softly. “Did you miss me?” 

Malcolm fidgets and glares through the blindfold. He’s tired and wants out of this. He wants to know why he’s here and what is happening! 

Fortunately for him, she is very chatty this time… and  _ less touchy _ . 

“I have an important call to make. I need you around, but I don't want to hear a sound from you. I hate being interrupted.”

A few seconds of silence pass before she starts talking, and Malcolm’s blood turns to ice. She’s speaking to  _ Gil _ — whom she probably sent the picture to. 

Malcolm forces himself to still, listening intently to the call. The first few seconds chill him to his core. He hates the way she’s talking to Gil, the absolute confidence in her voice is impressive…in a frightening way. Why is she so sure Gil’s going to listen to her? How much does she know about their relationship?  _ How long has she been planning this? _

When the woman speaks about her  _ Vinny,  _ Malcolm quickly makes the connection, and the realization almost makes his legs buckle. It all now makes sense. The timing of his kidnapping, the way he was abandoned. He’s not the target; just a means to an end.

_ This _ woman’s means to an end: Alexia Cooper, Panetta's girlfriend .  Malcolm remembers reading all the information the police had on her in the case files. 

Alexia Cooper met Vincent Panetta at a yacht party in Hawaii. They started dating soon after, and she moved with him to New York. Eye witness accounts explained how both lovers were enamored with each other. She was always around him, by his side, but she never seemed interested in his  _ business _ . It was why she wasn’t on their radar, the investigation had only deemed her a person of interest. That was a grave mistake on their part. Malcolm sees that now. 

Malcolm has no doubt that Alexia is doing this because she loves Vincent, but suspects there are additional motives at play. Alexia has so much to lose. If Vincent is convicted, she loses a lover and all the money he showers her with. 

This is useful information. Malcolm now knows his enemy. He wracks his brain, thinking of every detail he read in those files. It’ll come in handy-  _ If he is ever able to use his mouth.  _

“Oh! And I have eyes on you, Lieutenant,” she says, and Malcolm’s train of thought fades as he goes back to focusing on the call. “It's a family matter, after all, one family to the other, right? Don't you love him like your son?"

He really doesn’t like how this is going. Alexia is banking on Gil to follow their instructions like all the other witnesses before him. Malcolm definitely needs to get out of this mess—now more than ever... he will not be the reason Vincent Panetta goes free.

“Yes, your boy is here with me. He’s quite the dashing young man, isn’t he?  _ Very  _ handsome,” Alexia’s hands are on him again, and he wants to throw up. “One might even say he’s as handsome as my Vinny.” 

Malcolm doesn’t need his eyes to know that she’s looking at him with a predatory grin. Subconsciously shifting under the unwanted gaze Malcolm pours all his efforts into focusing on the sound of Gil's voice. He hopes that Gil doesn’t listen to her threats, that Dani or JT are standing right next to him, tracking this call. 

Alexia’s fingers travel playfully to his chin. " I'm afraid he's not in the mood for a chat at the moment… are you hon? " she coos and digs her nails in the soft flesh of his cheek. 

She wants to draw any sounds from him to sway Gil’s resolve. Malcolm bites his tongue as she digs deeper, determined not to show a reaction. He will not give her the satisfaction. After a few moments, her hold slackens, and he wrenches his head away. 

The call is taking forever, just like everything in this place. Alexia pulls away, and her heels click on the floor as she saunters around him. 

"Can I call you Gil?" Malcolm can tell by her tone alone that she’s the one in control. Gil panicked and gave her the power. Now she’s taunting and toying with both of them, holding Gil captive over the phone and Malcolm literally in her grasp. Her smug voice and jovial attitude give away her delight at the situation. She’s not just doing this for Vincent. She’s also enjoying it, the complete control over their lives. 

He hopes that Gil is playing her, stalling, and clings to this hope, however small. Gil knows Malcolm is tough, that he can take whatever she throws at him. Surely he won’t give her what she wanted… and they both know what she’ll ask. Gil isn’t the first witness that they’ve ever threatened. 

As if reading his mind, Alexia makes her demands. Her voice is menacing, calculated, and bathed with pent up rage. Malcolm wants her to remove the damn tape so he can tell Gil…  _ no! _ He can’t possibly listen to this. Before he knows it, Malcolm is falling into her trap just like she wanted. He’s mumbling, shouting behind the tape.  _ Gil, don’t do this! Gil, no.  _ But all that comes out is incoherent mumbles. 

A sudden surge of pain whips his head to the side, and he stops talking. A muffled moan escapes his lips. His cheek blooms with heat... she  _ slapped _ him. Not enough to hurt, but enough to serve as a warning, to remind him who’s holding all the cards.

"Hush now,  _ Malcolm.  _ The grown-ups are talking." 

Indignation flares inside him, and a furious flush rises to his face. The fact that Gil can hear this makes it a hundred times worse. She’s demonstrating to both of them just how pitiful and helpless Malcolm really is right now. It’ll affect Gil’s decision making, just like she wanted, and Malcolm played right into her hands.  _ Idiot.  _

"Don't you worry, Gil, I won't hurt your boy...  _ as long as you do what I want.”  _ she coos mockingly. 

Warm fingers are on him again, like ants crawling over his skin, and he hates it. His defensive instinct kicks in, and he jerks back and away from her touch. Malcolm moves back until he’s at the end of his tether and is now standing on his tiptoes, at the furthest point away from where the rope is hanging. 

Alexia takes another step towards him, and his breathing hitches, realizing that he is cornered. He’s stuck in an even more uncomfortable position than before, and his only two options are to stay as he is or move forward towards her to release the tension in the ropes holding him. 

He doesn’t move forward. 

She laughs and moves in closer...  _ so close _ . Malcolm has no leeway to do anything but stand still. The thought of headbutting her crosses his mind, but he ultimately decides against it. Last time he attacked the men who brought him here, they left him in pain and with no improvement to his situation. He needs to get his hands free before he attempts anything.

“Chop chop, Gil. It’s almost time for you to leave for the courthouse. I have eyes everywhere and will be waiting for the news.  _ But  _ in the meantime, Malcolm here can keep me company…" Alexia grabs his face again and holds him tighter than before. Her pointer finger brushes over the tape covering his mouth slowly, tracing his lips. Alexia sighs dramatically. "As I said, he's a very handsome man."

There’s barely any pressure behind the move, but the touch is unsettling regardless. Malcolm’s senses are screaming at him to run, to escape this horribly invasive touch, but he’s trapped! He holds his breath without even knowing, praying for her hands to move away. They don’t. 

“Toodles!” She sings into the phone and hangs up. Then she laughs. Loud. Triumphant. Menacing. It echoes off the walls and combined with the chill of the room, one could think the place is haunted by an evil spirit. 

Alexia pulls her finger away and taps his cheek. “We did it, Malcolm,” she tells him excitedly. “I’ll get Vinny back. And you can get back to Gil as well!” Malcolm swallows and reigns in the recurring urge to headbutt her anyway, just for the sake of it. 

He understands his position all too well now. After hours of silence and isolation, of being locked in the dark, Malcolm now has something to cling on to. Information. He knows the time. He knows who kidnapped him and why. He understands his enemy, why Alexia Cooper chose to blindfold and gag him. He’s bait. And he’s  _ leverage  _ to control Gil. Now that he knows this, the urge to leave has increased tenfold. He must escape as soon as possible. Gil  _ must  _ testify, and Vincent Panetta  _ must _ go to prison. Malcolm won’t let himself be the reason this man gets another free ticket to roam freely in the streets and hurt people. Standing here like an idiot and doing nothing won’t help anyone. But  _ what can he do? _

Alexia is a force to be reckoned with— she’s fueled with madness and lust. Malcolm is sure that she will hold on to each of the promises she made to Gil. This was no bluff. Her exploratory fingers were further proof. If she wants to touch him, he has no chance of protecting himself strung up like a peking duck.

As if she was reading his mind, Alexia's hands are on his cheek again. The one she slapped… the throbbing one. She cups his face and rests her forehead against his, a gentle gesture often exchanged between lovers. But they are  _ not that.  _ Malcolm stops himself from flinching. He won’t give her the satisfaction. “It’ll be over soon, I promise,” she whispers. “But, I have to go now.” Alexia walks away, her heels echoing in the vast silence of the place. “Just hang in there for a while. I’ll be back soon, and then we can have some real fun.” 

  
  



	4. The Mistake

###  Chapter 4: The Mistake 

Gil is dancing on a tightrope. He is rooted in place, paralyzed, as Alexia laughs and threatens Malcolm. His fury is engulfed by the mind-numbing fear and the overwhelming sense of helplessness. He’s trying to get a grip on himself, to let the rational police detective in him take charge, but it’s impossible. 

“Toodles!” There is a click, and Gil realizes that she has hung up.

Alexia _hung up..._ and Gil feels like the line he was walking on snapped. The world stills for one second before it implodes into chaos. His heart plummets when he realizes what just happened, and his vision swims. Gil is falling into an endless void, and there is nothing in the world that can break his fall. 

Shakingly, he reaches for the desk for support, leaning all his weight on his palm. And at this moment, that palm is his center of mass, grounding him, stopping his knees from buckling under him. Gil hasn’t felt this helpless, _truly helpless,_ in a long time. He sucks in lungfuls of air, but it feels more like a wheeze as he tries to comprehend the enormity of what just happened. 

Malcolm is in danger because he let his guard down, turned away his watchful eyes, and failed to expect a threat that was sure to come.

A rookie mistake. 

There was no other way to describe his failure to anticipate this last minute attack. Back when the DA’s office released the witnesses’ names, the team was worried— Gil was too, although he’d never admit it. The prosecutors insisted on offering him protection, even going so far as wanting to put him in Witness Protection until the trial, but Gil refused. He was a police lieutenant for God’s sake, he can protect himself. 

But did he protect his team? He didn’t protect the one person on his team who was like family— the _only_ person he considers family now that Jackie’s gone. 

_It wasn’t supposed to go this way._ Gil lowers his head, squeezes his eyes shut, and tries to curb the overwhelming urge to break down. Proceedings against Panetta had started ten months ago, and Panetta’s lawyers had used every trick in the book to delay proceedings as long as possible. At that time Malcolm wasn’t working with them yet. Malcolm was safe, in DC, with the FBI. Gil had no personal leverage Panetta’s men could use against him, so Gil stood his ground despite Dani and JT’s incessant arguments and pleas for him to listen. 

The first few weeks were tense, but unlike all the other previous trials, there were no attacks or threats from Panetta’s lieutenants. Everyone assumed that because Gil was a high ranking cop, Panetta’s men weren’t going to risk it. It was a solid theory, and it _still holds_ because this isn't the work of Panetta’s lieutenants… this is his girlfriend.

Which…. somehow makes this worse.

Gil doesn’t know anything about her MO, doesn’t know if she’ll keep her word or play dirty. Whenever it came to handling witnesses, Panetta’s lieutenants were always smart— blackmail with no trail, return the victims unharmed, and skulk back into the shadows. Malcolm’s abduction was the exact opposite, and it makes Gil uneasy to think that Alexia might be planning to kill Malcolm irrespective of whatever Gil decides to do. 

Alexia Cooper’s laugh plays over and over in his mind, haunting him. Gil was no profiler, but he’s been part of the force long enough to understand the dangers behind a sultry laugh like hers, the carefree confident attitude, and the suggestive tone in which she speaks to Malcolm. It chills Gil to his core. His mind provides him with one horrible thought after the other. Gil has seen many things over the years, and his enemy has always been his overactive imagination. Try as he might, his train of thought wanders, conjuring up images and ideas of what Alexia could be doing to his kid right now— and how powerless he is to save himself. 

Not only have they incapacitated him, strung him up, and cut his connection to what’s happening around him, but they have also taken his voice _—_ Malcolm’s most powerful tool. Gil will never admit this to the kid, but like his father, Malcolm is an expert manipulator. Gil knows that without his voice, the kid stands no chance. 

And it’s all Gil’s fault this time that the kid’s in danger in the first place. He should have protected him, shouldn’t have left him alone yesterday. He should’ve — 

He’s spiraling again, sinking through the floor in a vortex of self-blame and guilt and panic. His phone, still in his other hand, vibrates. Taking a shaky breath, Gil checks it— a text from a blocked number. A strange feeling that is a mixture of fear and rage overtakes him as he braces himself to read it. He doesn’t know what he’ll see or which feeling will dominate. 

> **𝚃𝚒𝚌𝚔 𝚝𝚘𝚌𝚔, 𝙶𝚒𝚕. 𝚃𝚒𝚖𝚎’𝚜 𝚛𝚞𝚗𝚗𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚞𝚙.**

Rage wins. 

Gil slams his hands on the desk, channeling all his anger and frustration into it. The gesture releases the tension that threatens to suffocate him. His palms throb, and the pain grounds him, makes him focus on the here and now. 

Alexia’s watching him. 

He is convinced now more than ever that she really does have eyes in the precinct. And as infuriating as the realization is, it also serves as a wake-up call. If he is to save Malcolm, then he needs to stop blaming himself and to start focusing on his next move. He needs a plan. 

A good plan. 

Malcolm’s life depends on it. 

On the count of three, Gil takes a deep breath, holds it in, and then exhales very slowly. The exercise drives the anxiousness away, if only for a few seconds, and allows him to think clearly. 

He will not lie on the stand. Not only is it illegal and unethical, but it’ll also lead to catastrophic consequences. Vincent Panetta _must_ be prosecuted… he has terrorized the city for so long, and he must pay the price. Gil would never be one to cave to these demands, and he knows that Malcolm shares his conviction.

Gil feels the fear grip his heart _—_ Malcolm would do anything to ensure that Panetta gets convicted. The kid called the police on his dad; Gil doesn’t have any doubt that Malcolm would rather sacrifice himself than let a killer loose _—_ _Gil won’t let that happen._

Since he won’t give Alexia what she wants, he must find a way to get Malcolm out of this, to find out where they’re keeping him and save him. The main goal of any hostage negotiation or K&R situations is to ensure that the hostage stays alive. Top of the list in tactics to service that goal is stalling for time. Gil needs to stall. 

_But there isn’t enough time_. The trial starts at noon, which leaves him the short amount of two hours to find Malcolm and save him before he has to get up on the stand. 

_Not enough._

Gil pinches the bridge of his nose and tries to drown the new wave of panic that tries to surface. He has to pass a message on to Dani. Gil closes his eyes, mutters a silent prayer, hopes that Jackie is watching over Malcolm, and rushes out of the office. 

Dani is out of her desk the second he steps out, a look of concern coloring her face. The lieutenant feels a swell of pride when his astute detective approaches him. Dani has noticed his unusual behavior. “Everything ok, boss?” She asks with a raised eyebrow. 

Gil looks around quickly, trying to see if anyone’s watching them. His keen eyes are usually good at noticing things, and his intuition is even better. But to his dismay, he sees nothing, doesn’t sense the familiar feeling of being watched. Everyone appears busy with their work. There aren’t any intruders eyes following him, or an uneasy feeling one usually gets when someone is watching them. _How did she know when to stop him during that call? She must have seen him getting up and reaching to call Dani in. How is she watching him?_

Dani senses his nervous energy and looks around as well. Subconsciously, she reaches for the gun strapped to her waist. Forcing her to look back at him, Gil rests a hand on her shoulder. The reassuring gesture backfires because his hand shakes. Dani’s head whips to look into his eyes, the confusion and concern so evident in hers as she tries to decipher the pain in his. 

“Powell,” Gil tries to say, but his voice is choked, and it shocks both of them. Gil clears his throat and tries again. “It’s nothing. It’s just that..umm… today’s Jackie’s birthday, and I forgot about it. She’s distraught, understandably. Called me just now. I think I let her down.”

“Gil? Umm, what are you—” Dani starts to ask, but he interrupts her. He gives her a meaningful and urgent look, hopes that she gets his message, prays that she understands.

“I told her the problem’s in my phone, it's been acting weird all morning, but she wouldn’t believe me. So, I have to make it up for her before things get really bad,” he shrugs, forcing out a laugh. It comes out brittle, more like a grimace.

The detective frowns and purses her lips for a few seconds, then she nods. “Sorry about that, boss. Seems like a crappy day! Maybe some takeout will cheer her up.”

Gil exhales, his lip wobbles for a fraction of a second before he composes himself. “Great idea. I’ll suggest Italian, her favorite.”

“Sounds like a plan!” Dani turns around, casually, and walks away. 

Gil can’t look back at her— he has risked enough already. He hopes his message was mundane enough for anyone eavesdropping and clear enough for Dani to decipher. Forcing his legs to move, one heavy step after the other, Gil finds himself out of the precinct and in his car. 

His phone buzzes.

> **𝙲𝚘𝚗𝚐𝚛𝚊𝚝𝚞𝚕𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗𝚜, 𝙶𝚒𝚕. 𝙰𝚗𝚘𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚜𝚝𝚎𝚙 𝚌𝚕𝚘𝚜𝚎𝚛 𝚝𝚘 𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚍𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚖. 𝚈𝚘𝚞 𝚍𝚎𝚜𝚎𝚛𝚟𝚎 𝚊 𝚝𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚝!**
> 
> **𝙻𝚘𝚟𝚎, 𝙻𝚎𝚡𝚒 😉**

Another message shoots through—a picture. Gil fights the panic that grips his heart. Hands shaking, not knowing what he’ll see, he loads the image, and his heart skips a beat.

It’s worse. 

Gil has no idea how it can get any worse, but it does. 

Much worse. 

This time, it’s a selfie. Malcolm is still gagged, still blindfolded, and still standing— judging by his arms’ position. And as much as Malcolm’s position fills him with anger, it isn’t the worst thing about the picture. 

It’s Alexia who’s making Gil’s hand tremble, the bile rise to his mouth, and his heart to rock against his ribcage. Gil tries to breathe, but he can’t. She’s too close— way _too close—_ probably provoking Gil, and her plan was a total success. 

He reigns in his urge to break his phone. He wants to break something… _anything, Damnit!_

Alexia is hugging Malcolm from behind, her free hand— the one not holding the phone to snap the selfie— is wrapped tightly around his neck, her head is resting on his. It’s not a gesture of affection but one of total control. Malcolm _can’t_ push her away, and his lack of control is so palpable that it’s threatening to suffocate Gil as he stares at that picture. She’s looking straight into the camera, into Gil’s soul, and her eyes are shining with contempt and lust, amusement, and mostly a sense of ownership— like Malcolm is hers now. She’s feeling invulnerable enough to have sent him this— her face. She’s also enjoying it, revels in the thrill of it— which could bode horribly for Malcolm. 

Gil’s vision blurs, and a mist fills his eyes. He clenches his other hand tightly and jams it into the steering wheel.

Again _and again and again._

His resolve from the past few minutes has dissipated, leaving behind fear and panic and anger …. _no…_ **_rage._ ** He’s going to put Alexia Cooper behind bars, even if it’s the last thing he ever does. Fueled by this promise, Gil thrusts the car into gear and makes his way to the courthouse.

* * *

Gil reaches the courthouse just ten minutes before the trial starts. He hasn’t had any phone calls from Dani, nor any new texts or phone calls from Alexia. He hopes that his team is working the case, and the reason they’re not contacting him is to avoid raising suspicions. His phone can be tracked… it’s _definitely_ hacked. 

The lack of communication from Alexia, however, fills him with dread… but relief as well. A selfish part of Gil doesn’t want to know what’s happening with Malcolm at the moment— he needs to be in his right mind for what he’s about to do. Gil hopes... _prays_ that his kid is holding up and will continue to hold up until Gil finds him... because he _will find Malcolm._

Gil has lost track of the times he repeats this mantra in his mind. He is sure it’s the only reason he hasn’t lost his mind, the only reason keeping him on his feet, functioning. He walks mechanically, surveying the crowd, dodging the fleet of reporters, clerks, and lawyers roaming about until he finds his target. 

Anna Dixon, the assistant District Attorney, meets him with a wide, confident smile. The lawyer has no idea that Gil is going to throw a spanner into all of her plans. He feels terrible; Anna has been working day and night on this case. She’s one of the best lawyers he has ever worked with, so young and ahead of her years. He’s sure she has backup strategies planned already. 

“Lieutenant Arroyo,” she smiles as she greets him. “How are the nerves? Umm... and where is your consultant? I thought he would be here. He seemed very interested in the… _procedures_.” 

Gil’s heart clenches at the mention of Malcolm. She liked him. While most people resented Malcolm for his eccentricity, Anna Dixon was fascinated by it. She was impressed with his analysis, pleasantly accepted his request to attend Gil’s witness prep, and was more than happy to compare notes. Gil smiles ruefully, thinking about that day. It feels like it was light-years away. 

“Everything’s alright, Lieutenant? You seem distressed,” she notes his body language, no doubt. 

Gil rubs his temples, trying to avoid the lawyer’s probing gaze, stalling. He straightens and looks her in the eyes. “Ms. Dixon, I know this is not ideal, and perhaps it is an impossibly difficult request to ask at this time, but believe me, if it weren’t critically urgent, I wouldn’t be asking you or put you in this position.”

The lawyer’s eyes narrow, and she frowns. “What is the matter, lieutenant. Did something happen? Are you—”

Gil cuts her off, lowers his voice. “Listen, I can’t tell you anything, but you need to trust me. I just need you to take me off today's witness list.”

“What!” She exclaims more in shock than anger. “No, no, you can’t withdraw. You’re our key witness. The case can crumble without your testimony; my entire case is built around it. You can’t just—”

“Anna, I _am_ going to testify, I promise you. Just not today. _Please_. I know this is a last-minute request, but you’re a brilliant lawyer. I am sure you can make it happen… a one day delay. It’s all I ask.“

“The judge will not appreciate this,” she states, though, in her eyes, Gil can see that she’s considering his request. 

“Trust me, I wouldn’t have asked if it wasn’t a matter of life and death,” he assures her, trying to convey through his eyes what his lips can't utter. And perhaps she sees it because she nods. 

“I’ll see what I can do,” she assures him and returns to her papers. 

Gil, still half shocked with relief, calls her back. “Please, make sure it looks like the change was from your side, not on my request. Would that be too much to ask?”

The lawyer is silent for a few moments. Instinctively she looks around, bites her bottom lip, and nods again. “Okay, I’ll figure something out,” she promises him. Before she turns around, her shrewd eyes meet his. “Good luck, Lieutenant. Something tells me you need it more than I do.”

Gil’s legs wobble as he watches the attorney walk away. He hopes he made the right decision. If his testimony is delayed until tomorrow, he has more time to locate and rescue Malcolm before he takes the stand. Now all he has to do is go inside and pretend he’s shocked when he’s not called to testify. 

Feeling steadier than ever since Alexia’s call, Gil finds himself a seat. The courtroom is buzzing with energy, filled to the brim with reporters. Gil hasn’t seen media coverage this intense since The Surgeon’s case. He’s sweating even though the air in the room is cold. For the millionth time today, he wishes he drove Malcolm home last night. The kid would have been safe, probably sitting next to him, bubbling with excitement as they wait for the judge to enter. 

Anna Dixon meets his eyes and smiles— signaling that she succeeded. Gil melts in his seat, awash with relief. He leans back, and a shaky laugh bubbles out of his mouth. _I’ll come and save you, Malcolm._

As if thinking about Malcolm has invoked something, Gil’s phone vibrates. 

He stops breathing.

> **𝚃𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚊 𝚖𝚒𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚔𝚎, 𝙶𝚒𝚕. 𝚂𝚎𝚎𝚖𝚜 𝚕𝚒𝚔𝚎 𝙼𝚊𝚕𝚌𝚘𝚕𝚖 𝚠𝚒𝚕𝚕 𝚑𝚊𝚟𝚎 𝚝𝚘 𝚙𝚊𝚢 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚙𝚛𝚒𝚌𝚎.**

Another beep. 

> **𝙸𝚝’𝚜 𝚊 𝚜𝚑𝚊𝚖𝚎 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚠𝚘𝚗’𝚝 𝚐𝚎𝚝 𝚝𝚘 𝚜𝚊𝚢 𝚐𝚘𝚘𝚍𝚋𝚢𝚎.**

  
  
  
  



	5. Long Enough

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AO3 was acting up for me .... I had to post this chapter two times before it worked 😂— sorry if you’re subscribed and were spammed!! 😅

### Chapter 5: Long Enough

Malcolm curses himself for letting Alexia go. 

Despite the overwhelming relief that washes over him when she leaves without having the _fun_ she intended to have, Malcolm realizes that he missed his only chance at an escape. He should have called her back, mumbled through the tape and persuaded her to remove it and untie him. Too late now. 

Malcolm lets his head fall forward, leaning it against his raised arms. He’s tired. Exhausted. His eyes keep closing despite his best efforts to stay awake. There is nothing he wouldn’t do to be able to sleep right now. _Just sleep for a few moments._

Once or twice his eyes close, and he starts to fall, legs going weak… but the screaming pain in his wrists as they were forced to bear his weight keep him conscious, forcing him to stand upright once more, and to resist the overwhelming urge to sleep. His arms, his shoulders, now his head are in pure, unfiltered agony, and he isn’t sure how much more of it he can take. 

Alexia said she will be back soon, and Malcolm has nothing else to do but wait for her. If he is smart this time, he can engineer his escape, call Gil before he testifies, and let him know that he’s okay. It’s the only thing that keeps him sane in his prison of silence and darkness. Malcolm estimates that she won’t be long gone— it was almost 10 in the morning, and the trial was at noon. Alexia has a window of two hours before she’s either forced to let him go or kill him. 

So, Malcolm waits.

And waits.

And waits. Still, so much time passes, far longer than he estimated, and she doesn’t return. Malcolm counts again, and after an hour, he stops. He’s now confident that it’s past two o’clock at least. 

Did he mishear the conversation? Was his mind playing tricks on him?

No. He’s sure Gil was at the precinct when Alexia called him. She told him he doesn’t have time before the trail starts. Which means that Malcolm’s time estimation is accurate. Dread builds inside him with every passing minute, he wonders if today's session was over and Gil completed his testimony, why is he still alone?

Something isn’t right. 

If Gil stood his ground and ignored Alexia’s threats, then she would have killed him. If Gil had followed her instructions, then she would have released him or possibly _killed him._ In both scenarios, she should have returned by now. 

Did she tell Gil where to find him and leave? Or did she just abandon him here alone to die—betting on his exhausted body giving out under the stress and fatigue? It wouldn’t be straight out murder then, would it? Was this her plan all along? 

The idea sends him into a full-blown panic attack. He can’t take this anymore. He stood his ground because he believed Gil would find him. Because he held onto the hope that when Alexia comes again, he’ll be able to convince her to let him down. 

The fear of him being abandoned takes over his rational thinking, leaving Malcolm paralyzed with fear. He can’t think clearly anymore, and he needs to get out of here. This single thought becomes all consuming, the fight or flight hormone starts to flood his system. 

He needs out of here, _now_. 

Panic causes Malcolm to hyperventilate, unable to slow his breathing, and with his mouth taped, the air he’s getting through his nose isn’t enough. Malcolm starts to feel lightheaded— there isn’t enough oxygen filling his lungs. He’s going to die here. He’s going to be left smothered in darkness and silence and pain until it engulfs him and swallows him whole. _No, no, no, please._ The tears collect at the corner of his eyes, and the blindfold is the only thing keeping them from falling. He’s shaking, swaying in his bonds, unable to hold himself up, unable to do anything beyond trying to breathe.

A desperate part in his mind, the part still trying to grip to any modicum of logic, knows that if he doesn’t control his breathing, he’ll definitely pass out. And if he does, then he’ll fall and dislocate his shoulders. The pain will be agony, and no one will take pity on him and let him down— whether they are still here or if he’s really alone.

“Oh, look at you!”

Malcolm startles. Flinches. The move causes his muscles to shift. Pain ignites in his back, and he lets out a muffled cry. One of the overstretched muscles in his back has finally torn under the strain. Malcolm ignores the pain, for now, shuts it out like he's been doing for most of his life, and tries to focus on the voice.

A mocking voice. Cold. Devoid of emotions. The last voice he wants to hear repeats. “ _Just._ _Look. At. You_. You’re working yourself up about so much that you’re bordering on hysteria.”

“Well, there is nothing else I can do, is there?” Malcolm bites the insides of his cheek. 

“My boy,” Martin coos. “That’s not true.”

“Oh, really?” Malcolm scoffs. He’s in a bad enough shape that he’s hallucinating, and arguing with said hallucination too—he’s unraveling. Malcolm wants them to stop, yet a part of him feels relief upon hearing his father’s voice. It’s better than the loneliness he has been trapped in. He can’t go back to the silence again— _he_ _can’t_. 

“Well, granted, you got yourself in quite a pickle, but—” Martin observes.

“I didn’t _get_ myself in anything. I was walking home. It wasn’t my fault this time.” He grits his teeth. The last thing he needs is his imaginary father criticizing him. 

“Do you really believe that?” Martin’s mocking voice continues. “You barely even fought. You made it _so easy_ for them to grab you. I mean, I’ve had young women fight harder than you did when I grabbed them.”

Malcolm whimpers, a soft moan of despair. The comment makes him want to throw up. He doesn’t know if it is his father’s condescending tone—which is really his own subconscious— or if it is the fact that his father is gloating about catching and subduing his victims. 

“And now, you’re just _standing there._ Panicking, crying like some damsel in distress, waiting for Gil to come and save you.”

“I—” Malcolm stammers. He _isn’t waiting for Gil._ All his panic comes to an abrupt stop and is replaced by anger and indignation. He _tried_ to escape, but he was slow and he failed. They had him drugged from the get-go. Malcolm woke up to find himself blindfolded, gagged, and already at a disadvantage. He has been standing since then, cold and stiff and aching all over. “I’m not waiting for Gil to save me,” he says with vehemence. 

“Then, what are you doing, exactly?” Martin asks nonchalantly.

“Umm… I …. just leave me alone,” Malcolm snaps. He’s really going crazy, isn’t he? Losing his mind, arguing with his hallucinations. 

“You _are_ well alone, my boy,” his father replies calmly.

Malcolm groans, his heart feeling heavier. He _is_ alone. He knew that already but having his father say it makes it a fact. 

He almost starts to hyperventilate again before his father continues, almost gently. “But you’ll always have me, Malcolm. No matter what happens, I’ll never leave you alone. You’ll _always_ have your old man in your corner.” 

Malcolm reigns in his urge to scream. _This isn’t comforting_ , not one bit! If anything, this proclamation horrifies him, chills him to his core. He’s always going to be his father’s prisoner. 

“Now, stop feeling sorry for yourself. It’s embarrassing. You are a Whitly—“

“ _That isn’t my name anymore,”_ Malcolm retorts.

“But this is who you are, _who you’ll always be._ Come now, you’re smart enough to manipulate your way out of this situation.”

“If you haven’t noticed,” Malcolm hisses. “It’s over. She’s not coming back. There is no one for me to manipulate.”

“Did they hit you on your head, as well? I thought you were smarter than this, my boy. Would she really leave you?”

Malcolm winces at the insult, but pauses, thinking. “No. Alexia is possessive.” She referred to Vincent Panetta as _my Vinny._ He remembers her touches, the way she spoke to Gil, the way she talked about him. 

“Yes,” his father hums approvingly. “Even if her plan was successful, or if this place was discovered...”

“She would have either taken me with her or killed me,” he shudders at the thought. If Alexia were to walk in, stand before him, and pull the trigger, he won’t see it coming. 

“Now we’re getting somewhere.”

“But.. the trial is over. I’m missing something. What happened at the trial?”

“How would I know? I’m stuck here with you. You tell me, what would the ever virtuous Lieutenant of yours do?” Martin says it mockingly, never missing a chance to express his contempt towards Gil.

“He wouldn’t give in to the blackmail,” Malcolm replies, wracking his mind. “Gil would want to stall, buy himself time to find me. Give Dani and JT more—”

“That’s probable.”

“—time. Gil is smart. He would speak to Anna and delay his testimony, make it seem like it’s her decision. This way, he ensures that Alexia doesn’t do anything to harm me—I mean more than she’s already planning.”

“Look at you. Quite the little detective.”

Malcolm smiles. Relief washes over him. Hope is not lost. The case is still going. Gil is fighting to get him back, and Malcolm still has a chance to escape.

* * *

When Alexia’s heels echo in the corridors, hope blooms in Malcolm’s heart. He braces himself for the encounter, orders his thoughts. He has one more chance, and he has to make the most of it. 

Her thudding clacks on the concrete change to a loud echo, and he knows she’s in the same room. This time, Malcolm recognizes her perfume as it diffuses through the room, invades his nostrils, and fills up his senses with her pheromones. A smell that would have, otherwise, aroused him had he been in a different situation. A musky fragrance, strong and enticing, just the perfect balance between sweet and naughty… like the woman herself.

Malcolm had seen pictures of Alexia in the case files while he was helping Gil to prep for the trial, but one only gets so much from a picture—just facts. However, her choice of perfume, the way she saunters in those heels, and her sultry attitude paint a much clearer picture in his mind of the woman who stands before him. 

Unlike last time, she wastes no time in silent observation. Instinctively, Malcolm tenses as she approaches him, then he reminds himself of his plans, and his muscles relax as much as his exhausted body will allow. 

Alexia moves behind him and puts warm, gentle fingers on his shoulders. Despite himself, Malcolm lets out a pained cry—his shoulders are in agony. Alexia massages his aching shoulders, and as much as her touch repels him, he can’t help the small moans that escape his lips as she works the sore and tense muscles, relieving some of the pain that’s been building up.

“Oh, poor you. Your muscles are so tense, they’re quaking under my touch.” she coos as she rubs and massages. “You need to relax a bit. Do you know how long you’ve been standing, Malcolm?” 

Her hands travel down, and she wraps herself around his body, hugging him from behind. The extra weight sends Malcolm swaying before Alexia steadies him, holds him upright. 

“Long enough,” Alexia whispers, and she’s so close that Malcolm feels her lips as they brush over the lobe of his ear—her heels making her the same height as he is. It makes the hair at the back of his neck rise and sends a shiver down his spine. “Maybe it’s time you relaxed a bit. Wouldn’t it be nice if I let you down?”

Malcolm fights the indignant flush threatening to engulf him, swallows his dignity, and says yes. It’s muffled by the tape around his mouth, but it is clear enough for her to understand. 

“Is that a yes?” Alexia pulls away and moves around. He counts the steps, thinks she’s facing him now, but he’s not sure. Malcolm nods eagerly, wincing when his stiff muscles suddenly shift.

“Ahh!” She exclaims excitedly. “I knew you’d come around. Submit to me, and I’ll make all your pains go away.”

It takes all of Malcolm’s self-control to stay still as she slowly unbuttons his shirt and runs her fingers over his chest. Her touch is playful, yet so possessive and unwelcome, and he hates it. He hates how his heart rate spikes and how his body breaks out in goosebumps. He tells himself he’s cold and tired, that he’s biding his time and playing her game. Yet all these excuses can’t help the shame that he feels or the fear that his body will eventually betray him. 

He knows she’s thoroughly enjoying this, too. Alexia, once more, brushes her finger over the tape covering his mouth, a gesture of playful intimacy. It’s barely any pressure, but it’s disturbing nonetheless. He doesn’t breathe, doesn’t squirm, and tries to hold still. Malcolm doesn’t need his eyes to know that hers are shining with lustrous desire. 

Her finger lingers for a few tense moments and then she removes it. Before Malcolm can relax, something else presses over the tape, something warmer. As her nose brushes against his a second later, he realizes that she’s _kissing him_. She’s kissing him through the tape. 

Surprise and fury hold him in place for a nanosecond before he jerks away. Malcolm forgets about his plan, overwhelmed with an animalistic instinct to get away, and tries to move back to distance himself from her. Alexia audibly scoffs, then his cheek erupts on fire as she slaps him. Malcolm grunts and staggers—she’s angry he pulled back.

“You _lied_ to me,” she snarls, all hints of her sweetness are gone. She’s furious, and dangerous when she speaks again. “You said I could _take care of you._ You said you wanted out.”

 _And he did._ Malcolm curses himself for slipping up. He fears that she’ll leave him again, and the thought makes him want to scream. However, Alexia doesn’t leave. Instead, she grabs his chin with one hand, fists the other in his hair, keeping him in place. 

“You’re _mine,”_ her fingernails dig so hard in his cheeks it makes him moan. Her voice is bathed in anger, and Malcolm knows she’s up to no good. “You belong to me. I control everything, even when you breathe.”

It is all the warning he gets before his air supply is cut off. With his mouth taped, Malcolm’s only way to breathe is through his nose… so Alexia just pinches it. It’s barely even any effort. Using her index and her thumb, she’s controlling when and if he should be allowed to breathe. Malcolm staggers... _flails_ as the terror floods his system. He tries to wrench his head, but her hold in his hair is merciless. 

Desperately, Malcolm opens his mouth … _tries_ to get air through, but the tape is relentless, a perfect barrier between his mouth and the outside world. He can’t breathe… his lungs are screaming for air, his heart is hammering against his chest, and his head feels like it will explode with the pent up pressure. He’s going to suffocate. 

Malcolm ignores his stiff muscles, numb limbs and he bends his knees, kicks out with one foot, and he hits her. Alexia screams, her hand relaxes for a second. Then she swears, seething and pinches his nose even harder.

“You _idiot.”_ She kicks him between the legs, and Malcolm sees fireworks—colors of blues and reds and greens dance before him and then morph into white. His legs buckle and Malcolm hangs by his arms. It’s agony… _everywhere_. Pain signals race all over his body, and the lack of air is beyond what he can take. He hears nothing and feels nothing but fire. It’s too much, and he can’t even scream. 

Just as he feels the darkness encroaching, feels himself fading, she backs away. Malcolm inhales sharply, but it’s not enough to bring him back from the dark pit he’s sinking into. Then she’s ripping the tape away, and he would have winced if he wasn’t dying, if he wasn’t in unspeakable agony. 

Malcolm opens his mouth, gasps loudly, welcoming the air as it fills his lungs. He continues to heave in gasps, trying to compensate for the lack of oxygen. It feels like he’s inhaling glass, but he’s so hungry for oxygen he barely registers it— not with the rest of his body on fire.

He’s still hanging by his wrists, unable to pull himself up, swaying. He dully notices that he's crying, but he can’t stop himself. Staccato sobs, escaping his lips, interrupted by him gasping for breath. 

He doesn’t know if Alexia is still there, and he no longer cares. It doesn’t matter if she’s enjoying the show, watching him fall apart or if she’s getting off on his pain. All he cares about is gulping as much air as he can, hoarding it, afraid that his supply will be cut again. 

He’s left uninterrupted for a few minutes as he tries to recover. When his breathing evens up a bit, his mind kicks into gear, and he regains control of his senses again. 

Alexia’s proving a point. She’s showing him how helpless he really is, how in control she is—she can suffocate him, kill him without breaking a sweat. She can kill him by using two fingers. It’s humiliating beyond anything he’s ever felt. Malcolm can’t stop it when the tears of pain saturating the blindfold are replaced by those of indignation. 

He’s too ashamed to even appreciate the ultimate gift such humiliation has given him. He’s no longer gagged. He can _speak!_

Malcolm knows Alexia is still watching him, but he can’t find his voice to speak. He’s still reeling from the pain, legs floundering under him. He’s still too disoriented to form words, too scared to anger her and end up the tape back on before he gets a chance to try. 

His wrists are screaming for him to get up. The rope chafes his wrists, reopening the lacerations from earlier, and new blood runs down his arms in rivulets. Forcing himself to stand again, Malcolm finds the floor under him and pushes his feet to bear his weight. His wrists sing in relief when the pressure is off. 

“No, no, no,” Alexia clicks her tongue and walks… _behind him?_ Malcolm grunts when she grabs his hair from behind and tilts his head, so he’s facing the ceiling. “Did I say you could stand up again?” She hisses in his ear and delivers a kick to the back of his knee, left and then the right. Malcolm cries as his knees start to buckle, as agony shoots up and down his legs, and he sags once more. This time, there is a sickening sound as his left shoulder pops. 

Malcolm sees white. He lets out a loud, hoarse scream until he’s out of breath, leaving him with a mouth gaping open, unable to voice the pain, or even draw breath. When he heaves in air his muscles shift, and a fresh wave of agony threatens to pull him under. He can’t move a muscle without reigniting the fire in his shoulder, without having bone grind against bone. To avoid all this and minimize his anguish, he hangs limply, takes shallow breaths and tries not to jostle his shoulder. 

Alexia grabs his shirt front, pulls him towards her, and he whimpers. “Better,” she observes. “Now, let’s try that once more.” She holds his chin, leans in and kisses him again. With no barrier this time, her lips press against his. Malcolm has no energy to fight her back, can’t move a muscle. Frankly, he just wants this to be over, so he lets her kiss him. 

She pulls away, hums her approval. “You were good this time, Malcolm. Maybe you deserve a reward.”

She walks away, and Malcolm’s head drops to his chest. He is fighting to stay awake, to see what else she’s planning for him. He wants to try to get his feet under him again, but he’s afraid the next time she pushes him down, he’ll dislocate his other shoulder. Mainly he just doesn’t want to move an inch; he can’t take another spike of pain— he’s sure he’ll lose consciousness. 

Alexia’s heels echo until she’s so far away from where he hangs, probably at the end of the room. She presses something, Malcolm hears a ring, and then the rope holding him up sags. 

He’s out before he hits the floor.

  
  



	6. Back to Square One

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, prodigies! Happy new year!! And omg we’re getting a new episode Today!!! 🥳  
> I’m so sorry I haven’t updated any of my fics lately. The past couple of weeks were very tough—work and submissions and all... barely had time to do anything else! 
> 
> But I'm back! Enjoy this one 💕

### Chapter 6: Back to Square One 

_Alexia’s heels echo until she’s so far away from where he hangs, probably at the end of the room. She presses something, Malcolm hears a ring, and then the rope holding him up sags._

_He’s out before he hits the floor._

~~~

Malcolm comes to with a gasp. There is water dripping from his hair, into his eyes, and on the floor. The floor on which he’s still huddled. 

“I didn’t say you could pass out,” Alexia says. “I didn’t let you down so you can have a nap.” 

Malcolm groans. Alexia isn’t going to let the darkness claim him. She’s robbed him of that small mercy that his body had granted him. He’s lying on his right side, mercifully the one with the good shoulder. Shakingly, he tries to brace himself on his right elbow, tries to get up, but every tiny movement sends pain shooting through his shoulder. 

Malcolm cries out and falls back to the floor. He wills himself to try again, but his body won’t listen. It’s infuriating. He’s free—his arms are no longer raised above his head, and he is no longer mute. He can get up and run, he can speak—it’s more than he wished for a few hours ago. Yet he can’t do anything but lie on this floor. His muscles are aching and numb, like an old machine that needs oiling. He can still feel his head throbbing, blood rushing to his head after being suffocated. 

Every time he breathes… every time he sucks in a breath, he almost passes out from the pain as his shoulder muscles move. Mostly he just feels disoriented and exhausted. 

He knows Alexia is watching him in silence, and an overwhelming urge makes him want to see her. He wants to look into her eyes, see that glimmer of lust and the desire for control. Malcolm reaches out for the blindfold, ready to pry it off his eyes, but his wrists are pulled down with a force so strong it makes him scream. He sees white for a second as his shoulder screams in agony. 

Through the fog of pain, he remembers that his wrists are still tied. His brain supplies the reason behind the imaginary force that pulled his hands down—Alexia pulled on the ropes to get his hands away from his eyes.

“The blindfold stays Malcolm,” she tells him when he stops screaming and crying out. “I didn’t say you can take it off.”

Malcolm swallows his tears of pain, forces himself to focus. He pushes the pain away, soldiers on despite every cell in his body wanting him to give up. “Why?” He rasps, his voice hoarse and dry—he doesn’t know the last time he drank anything. “I already know who you are.”

“I know. But I control everything now, and I say you can’t see yet,” she laughs mischievously. “Plus, if I allow you to remove it, then where’s the fun in that.”

“Alexia—”

“Oh hon, you can call me Lexi,” she interrupts him. 

Malcolm grits his teeth and presses, “Lexi.”

“Yes, darling,” Lexi’s hand brushes the stray locks of his hair, making Malcolm flinch. He didn’t hear her approaching, didn’t know she was this close. He takes a second to compose himself and then continues. 

“I read your file,” he says and braces himself for a reaction: A kick, a slap but nothing comes. She doesn’t speak either. The hand in his hair stills—she’s listening. Malcolm tries to choose his words carefully to drive his point across. “You see, my job is to try and understand people, to understand the reasons they act. Nobody is born broken, Lexi. Someone breaks us.”

“I’m _not_ broken,” Alexia snaps. 

“Everyone's a little broken. It’s just easier to pretend we’re not sometimes.”

“And what was in my file that made you decipher the mystery? Was it my eye color, or the dress Vinny bought me for New years?” Alexia’s mocking him, but Malcolm’s keen ears catch the faint tremor in her voice. 

“No,” Malcolm says gently. “I read about the little girl. She lost her parents when she was ten: A home burglary. Orphaned and abandoned at an early age, she was put into foster care. Things never got easier for her from there. Home after home, no one understood the fiery soul or her kindred spirits. She was misunderstood, often mislabeled as violent, rude, unappreciative. No one understood that all she needed was to be heard, loved, and appreciated.”

Lexi’s hands slip from Malcolm’s hair. It could be a bad or good sign. Malcolm doesn’t know if he’s building a connection or angering her. He takes her silence and the absence of pain as a sign to continue. 

“The young girl grew into a strong independent woman. Ambitious, stubborn, and willing to show the world and everyone how wrong they were about her. Then one day—”

“—one day, she was working on a yacht. A waitress. It was some rich guy’s party,” she cuts in, her voice is reminiscent and wistful. “There is always a party in Hawaii. But she met the love of her life. She felt seen, loved, and appreciated. He have her everything she ever wanted, everything she needed—more than she could have ever dreamt. He snatched her up from the misery and poverty—”

“—but he’s a killer, Lexi.” Malcolm presses. “Just like those burglars who killed your parents years ago. He’s the reason more girls are orphaned.”

“I don’t care!” Lexi screams. “He’s the reason **I am not alone**. He’s the reason I’m no longer some poor waitress. He’s the reason I have a home, the reason I’m _loved.”_

“That’s not love. It’s possession.” 

“He _saved me_! And I’ll save him back. I won’t let him go to prison.” Malcolm hears the conviction in her voice as she screams. 

“Deep down, you know he’s not a good man, Lexi. You deserve better,” Malcolm pleads again, putting all his sincerity in his voice, and tries to remind her of who she was as a child. “Melissa and Rob Cooper wanted better for you. That’s why they protected their little daughter that night.”

“Shut up,” she growls. “Shut up. _Just_ **_shut up!_ **”

Pain flares in Malcolm’s back, where she kicks him. Malcolm whimpers and tries to breathe through the pain. He’s so close now; he must focus.

Alexia sniffs and groans. Her breaths are loud and frantic—Malcolm wonders if she’s having a panic attack. “You see why I didn’t want the damned tape off,” she says, and her voice is choked. _Is she crying?_ “I don’t want to hear you speak again.”

“Whatever you have planned, it won’t work,” he pushes against his good judgment. “Gil won’t listen to your blackmail. He won’t perjure himself.”

“What do _you_ know?” Alexia spits vehemently. “He’ll do what I want. I’ll make sure of it.”

Malcolm’s heart skips a beat. “Hurting me won’t make him cooperate. Lexi, please.”

“Oh, it very much will.” she retorts. “That’s out of the question. He’s already made a huge mistake. Tried to outsmart me, and you’ll pay for it. I was just trying to see if you deserved some kindness. But you don’t! You’re trying to manipulate me, flip me against Vinny to save yourself!” 

“That’s not true.”

“Shut up, or I’ll stomp on your neck and break it.”

Knowing she’s not bluffing, Malcolm heeds Alexia’s warning and stops talking. While he won’t call this attempt a successful one, he still managed to get through to her. He made her break that facade she’s been hiding behind. Fear grips his heart when he thinks of the pain she promised, but he tries to push it aside. Instead, he focuses on what he found out about Gil. If anything, it was the only useful information he got out of his trial. 

Malcolm has information. Gil did something… but what? Did he do as Malcolm suspected? Delay his testimony?

 _“Or did he testify against Vincent and leave you here to die,”_ Martin’s voice startles him. Malcolm doesn’t know when his father’s hallucination came back, and if it was welcome before, then it certainly isn’t now. 

Malcolm winces at the harshness of his tone. The thought hurts, makes him want to cry. Firstly because how could he ever doubt Gil, and secondly because he’s scared that he even thought of it. Malcolm closes his eyes and feels his tears sting behind the blindfold. _There is no way Gil would._ He’s just tired and hurting and confused. He squeezes his eyes and wills Martin to leave him alone. He doesn’t have the energy for him right now. 

Alexia whistles, the shrill sound echoing into the void around them, and more footsteps echo in the room—her henchmen. Malcolm wants to get up and fight them, yet somehow he feels so drained. He tiredly wonders how long he was standing to feel this level of fatigue?

The rope around his wrists goes taut again, and it’s all the warning he gets before his arms are wrenched back and dragged. The motion sets his dislocated shoulder on fire, and Malcolm shrieks his agony away. The pain is enough to blast him back from the snares of his black thoughts and into the anguish of the current one. He howls again, but the pain is more than he can bear—Malcolm promptly passes out.

* * *

A foul smell invades his senses, works its way up to his brain, and activates his gag reflex. It drags him back from the deepest pits of unconsciousness. Malcolm tries to move his head away, tries to break away from the hideous smell, but he can’t. He wrinkles his nose to escape the odor, and that’s when he realizes that he can’t breathe. _He’s gagged again._

 _No_. 

The panic brings him to full awareness. The first thing he notices is that he’s sitting in a chair. He’s _mercifully_ sitting, and that alone makes him want to weep in relief. Granted, he’s tied down, but he’s not strung up again. His shoulder can’t take the pain. His wrists are tied to the chair’s arms—with what feels like duct tape—and his ankles are tied to its legs similarly. He’s still blindfolded. Malcolm tugs against his restraints, testing their strength. They don’t budge, and the pain that shoots through his shoulder is his only reward. He doesn’t struggle again. 

“Good, you’re awake,” Lexi says. “I thought you wouldn’t wake up. Had Hector bring that horribly smelly thing.” She tells him, disgust apparent in her voice. Malcolm wants to yell at her because she’s not the one with the cursed thing shoved under her nose. “Well, I guess it did work. Thank you, Hector, you can take it away now.”

Hector moves away, but the smell still remains. Malcolm tries to breathe against the nausea that he feels. If he were to retch with his mouth taped, he’d either be forced to swallow it back, or he'd suffocate on his vomit and die. Minding his shoulder, Malcolm takes in slow, regular breaths and tries to focus on anything else but that smell.

Somehow he feels like he’s back to square one. Malcolm had his chance to persuade Lexi to let him go, and he failed. Now he’s gagged again. The despair he feels is so intense that it almost feels like his heart hurts. Alexia is still here. Still not talking, always observing. Finally, she breaks the silence, and when she speaks, Malcolm almost jumps in his seat. 

“You look so pretty when you’re quiet, darling.” Malcolm grits his teeth. Lexi’s back to her nonchalant self. This doesn’t bode well for him at all. “Wouldn’t you agree that silence is a virtue?”

Malcolm feels himself flush with anger. She’s toying with him again, and he can’t do anything to stop it. Nothing. 

“You won’t say anything?” lexis baits and laughs at her own joke. “Oh, I forgot, you can’t speak.” 

She brings a finger to his ear, brushes it gently, then moves it to his cheek and strokes down to his chin. “It’s a shame. You have a pretty voice and an even prettier scream. Maybe if you behave, I’ll remove that tape and let you speak.” She bops his nose. “Maybe we can even make Gil hear you scream too. He needs an incentive to listen.”

Malcolm’s heart skips a beat. _No. Not Gil._

 _“Well, at least we now know he didn’t sell you out,”_ Martin chimes in, and Malcolm ignores him.

His muffled protests are ignored as Lexi uses his finger to unlock his phone once more. 

“Gil,” she says, and Malcolm stiffens. “How are you?” 

* * *

##  _A Few Hours Earlier_

> **𝚃𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚊 𝚖𝚒𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚔𝚎, 𝙶𝚒𝚕. 𝚂𝚎𝚎𝚖𝚜 𝚕𝚒𝚔𝚎 𝙼𝚊𝚕𝚌𝚘𝚕𝚖 𝚠𝚒𝚕𝚕 𝚑𝚊𝚟𝚎 𝚝𝚘 𝚙𝚊𝚢 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚙𝚛𝚒𝚌𝚎.**

Gil’s hands shake as he reads the message Alexia sent. How did she know… _so fast?_

He frantically looks around, scanning the crowds, trying to look for a set of piercing eyes staring at him. But in a courtroom full of people, full of _reporters_ , he can’t know if he’s being watched for a scoop or if it’s Alexia’s spy. 

Another beep brings his attention to the phone, and it feels like the air has been punched out of his lungs. The second his eyes fall on the words that sealed Malcolm’s fate, Gil stops breathing. He gasps, but it’s only a pained wheeze. 

> **𝙸𝚝’𝚜 𝚊 𝚜𝚑𝚊𝚖𝚎 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚠𝚘𝚗’𝚝 𝚐𝚎𝚝 𝚝𝚘 𝚜𝚊𝚢 𝚐𝚘𝚘𝚍𝚋𝚢𝚎.**

Gil shoots to his feet, and the world spins out of focus. He doesn’t take a second to find his balance. He staggers out of the room, not caring about opening statements and procedurals or the world itself. 

He steadies his shaking hands and dials Malcolm’s number once, twice, _three times._ He waits until the line disconnects every time. No one answers. The frustration builds up with every call, it feels like cement filling his lungs, and he can’t breathe. 

He knows Alexia won’t answer him. She’s teaching him a lesson, making him pay for his mistakes. 

Did he get the kid killed?

_No._

He calls again.

She must be bluffing. There is no way that she’ll kill him. Malcolm is her only leverage. If she kills him, she condemns Vincent to prison. And she’ll be looking at a murder charge herself. 

Alexia is more sophisticated than that.

The call disconnects, and he almost breaks his phone in two. 

Gil lets out a broken sob as he sinks in the nearest chair. He’s so lost, doesn’t know what to do. 

Should he contact Dani and JT, or should he wait for Alexia to call him back?

What if he waits for Alexia’s call, and it never comes? What if she ends up killing Malcolm because he sat there and did nothing? What if talking to JT and Dani _is the reason_ he gets killed. 

What if Malcolm is already…

No, no, he won’t go there. Not yet. She’s bluffing—just a bluff. There is just no way.

Gil manages to get on his feet and walks to the nearest restroom. He turns on the faucets and splashes water in his face. The water feels cool against his burning skin, absorbs the heat it’s radiating, and helps cool him down. But it does nothing to stop his racing thoughts or the furious beating of his heart. Gil stares at his reflection, into his eyes, and all he sees is a look of a lost man. He doesn’t know what’s the right course of action. What should he do? 

He checks his phone for any new calls or messages. Alexia hasn’t texted him any instructions yet. Dani hasn’t contacted him either. 

Gil takes in a deep breath and forces himself to stop spiraling. Malcolm needs him. He can’t afford to break down. Gil finishes up and makes his way out; he can sit in his car and plan his next move. Anna Dixon gave him a day; he should use it. 

Standing by the door and blocking his exit is a tall man in a black suit. Gil didn’t hear him come in; probably the sound of running water disguised that. Gil apologizes at first, waits for the man to move, but he doesn’t move away. 

“Lieutenant Arroyo?” The man asks.

Ah. “Yes. Why?” Gil grits out. 

“Please come with me.” The man steps aside and motions for Gil to move ahead. 

“Where to?” Gil asks, making a point of not moving an inch until the man replies. He knows this is Alexia’s man—there’s no doubt of this fact. 

“I have orders to escort you home,” the man replies calmly. Then he explains. “It’s a courtesy ride from my boss.”

“And if I refuse?” Gil tests his luck.

“I would recommend that you come with me, sir. It’s for the best.” The man retains his calm and polite demeanor, but Gil sees how his right hand reaches for what is most certainly his gun. Gil doesn’t even question how he slipped the gun through security. He expected that Alexia would want to keep an eye on him until tomorrow. She can’t afford to have Gil making any moves in those hours or contact his team.

Maybe they’ll take him to see Malcolm? The thought springs to his mind and all rational thought goes out the window. He prays that the kid is okay, that Alexia lied to him just out of anger for what he did. Hope blossoms in his chest at the thought. A drowning man’s hope, but hope nonetheless.

And if there is a 1% chance he would see Malcolm, then there is no choice but to follow.

Slowly, Gil follows the man out of the courthouse and into the sleek Mercedes car parked out front. 

* * *

On the steps to the courthouse stands a man. He watches as Lieutenant Arroyo walks out, and instead of making for his car, he goes the other way. The man’s keen eyes notice that the Lieutenant is following another… towards a parked Mercedes. 

“Shit,” he whispers and only has the presence of mind to catch the car plates as it pulls off the curb. “Shit!” he repeats. The man reaches out for his phone and dials. 

Two rings. 

It picks up on the third. “Mathias? Is it done?” 

“Detective Powell,” Mathias says. “I think we have a problem.” 

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fun fact. Up until last chapter, you could only read Gil’s chapters or Malcolm’s and you could follow the entire story without missing much! But starting this chapter, both stories merge ? 😂 
> 
> Hope you enjoyed reading! ❤️


	7. Behind The Scenes

### Chapter 7: Behind The Scenes 

Dani looks at her phone for the seventh time in the past ten minutes. She knows it’s a stress reaction, that time won’t move faster if she keeps checking. Yet she still does. 

_No new messages_. She sighs. 

Dani bites her lips and pretends that she’s still filing some paperwork for their previous case. There is a mole here, someone that can’t be trusted—which means she must be cautious to avoid alerting them. 

Today started quite normal. It was supposed to be a slow day, even. She had finished most of her paperwork the day before, and all she had to do was look over it, double-check everything was right, and submit it. Gil was set to testify at court today, and Bright was going with him. Homicide had asked for JT’s help on their latest case, leaving her with no specific task to do. If Major Crimes didn’t get called on any cases, then she would invest her time in one of the cold ones. Or maybe see if JT needed her help. 

The first weird thing that happened was that Bright was late. Bright is never late; if anything, he’s always painstakingly early. Dani felt an odd sense of unease creep up on her as the minutes ticked, and the profiler’s desk remained empty. There is no way he overslept because Dani knows Bright barely ever sleeps. Maybe it was some family emergency—maybe Mrs. Whitly needed him for whatever rich people like them do. It wasn’t a compelling argument, but for the sake of her sanity, she tried to convince herself that it was. 

But then Dani saw Gil, and all her anxiety skyrocketed. Something was off about how he looked outside before closing his office door and draping all the curtains. His eyes were haunted, and his body language betrayed his distress. When he finally left his office, her suspicions were confirmed. Gil’s eyes were wild and distraught, his shoulders were tense, his strides were fast and nervous, and despite trying very hard to hide it, Dani could see that his hands were shaking. 

Her mentor looked around like he was searching for someone. Dani found herself mimicking his move, looking for the possible source of danger. Her hands had reached for her gun, a muscle reaction to fend off the invisible threat she still hadn’t pinpointed. Gil’s hands land on her shoulder, steadying her and seeking comfort at the same time. 

Dani had never seen Gil look like that. She had asked him what was wrong, but his answer was even more alarming. Gil had mentioned Jackie—like she was still _alive_.

She had schooled her features and tried to keep a straight face. If Gil felt the need to mention Jackie, then it was definitely a cry for help. The fact that he resorted to saying this meant that they were being watched, spied upon. So she remained impassive as she heard her boss and mentor speak. She took in every word he said, and the way he said it—everything was committed to memory. 

A few words stuck out. Things she knew immediately, others she needed to double-check. Nevertheless, she got the message loud and clear. 

  1. _Something in his phone._
  2. _Before things get really bad._
  3. _Italian._



This had something to do with the Italian Mafia and the court case. _Of course!_ The puzzle pieces fell in place, and Dani saw the whole picture. She almost smacked her forehead! Vincent Panetta had found a way to get to Gil. The man’s MO was to hold a close person to the witness and force them to ruin the case. _Malcolm._

That was why he didn’t show up. That was why Gil looked this shook. 

Dani had acted smart, offered Gil a few comments that are a confirmation and a promise. An assurance that she got this, and a promise that she would do her best to help bring Bright back. 

Once Gil left, Dani had updated JT via text. It was a coded message that no one would get but him—a code they invented when he went undercover once, and they kept using it ever since. If someone was tracking their phones, they wouldn’t be able to understand anything. To all outward appearances, they looked like regular everyday chats.

She needed to keep an eye on Gil as well, but it had to be someone else. If JT or her were to do it, they’d probably be made very quickly. A name had sprung to her mind, and she promptly made the call. Officer Mathias was still new on the job and won’t be a recognizable face. A rookie—but he could get the job done. Dani was friends with his sister, and she knew him since he was a kid; she could trust him. 

Having arranged that, Dani’s last remaining task was to determine who exactly had Bright and where they were keeping him. 

It had been a few hours since then. 

Dani sneaks another peek at her phone. She’s been looking at files ever since Gil left—Possible hideouts. Records. Anything. 

Everything came up short.

The sound of her phone ringing startles her. It’s officer Mathias. Dani hopes he had managed to slip the burner phone and the note—saying that she got his message—to Gil somehow. 

Instead, he delivers news that makes her blood run cold. 

* * *

When Gil slides into the backseat of that car, he finds a man waiting for him in the next seat. The second the door closes, a gun is shoved in Gil’s side. 

“Your phone,” the man says, and Gil reluctantly complies. He reaches into his pocket slowly, fishes it out, and holds it up for the man who snatches it. “And your gun.”

“I’m not carrying,” Gil hisses. 

The other guard from the restroom gets in the passenger seat, and the car instantly drives off. Gil watches as the man next to him hands his phone to the other guard, and then he hears the distinct sound of glass breaking—his phone. 

“It’s done,” the guard announces, and the man next to him relaxes his hold on the gun. 

He presses on a button on the door next to him, and the car window curtains slide up—Gil can no longer see the streets outside or where they’re taking him. 

“Where are we going?” Gil asks because he knows there is no way they’re driving him home despite what the guard said in the restroom. 

The man next to him audibly sighs, contemplates ignoring the question, but then decides to answer him, anyway. “Ms. Alexia paid for your accommodation until the testimony. We’re going there now.”

Gil reigns in the temptation to roll his eyes because this doesn’t answer his question. “Will I see Malcolm Bright?” he asks and curses himself when his voice breaks as he utters the kid’s name. 

The man simply shrugs. 

“Can I speak to Alexia?” 

“Ms. Alexia is busy. She will call when she needs you.” The answer is curt, and the message behind it is clear. ‘Stop talking.’ 

“What if _I_ need her?” Gil presses and is met with silence. The lieutenant grits his teeth and imagines punching the man until he gets his answers. He doesn’t consider himself a violent man, but desperate men do desperate things, and right now, Gil _was_ desperate. 

“I need to go home to change for tomorrow,” Gil tries another route. 

“You don’t need to worry about that. A new suit will be provided for you.” 

“My team will worry about me, and they’ll start digging.”

“It’s taken care of.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Gil argues back. 

“Enough questions,” the guard from before says. The small window that separates both sides of the car goes down, and the guard’s gun is shoved in Gil’s face. 

Gil glares back, defiant. The gun doesn’t scare him. “Or what?” 

“ _He_ will pay.” 

Gil’s stomach drops as he hears the words, and his heart skips a beat. The threat isn’t uttered with a smirk or malice. It’s just a statement—something the man was told to say—a message to deliver. Something to keep Gil in line. 

And it works. 

Gil presses his lips together, and stops talking, stops arguing. _He stops breathing even._ He can never be the reason for causing Malcolm more pain; Gil has done enough already. The kid is in this mess because of him. 

The car travels through the city of New York in eerie silence. Gil spends the rest of the ride lost in thought. He doesn’t dare speak again. Instead of asking any more questions, he thinks about his next move. He replays the events of the past few hours in his mind. The messages, the calls, and the threats—Alexia Cooper’s laugh and his kid helpless to protect himself. The more he thinks of it, the heavier he feels, and the more the despair gnaws at his heart. But Gil swallows it down and forces himself to focus. He has to be prepared for when Alexia calls next, needs to know how to convince her to keep Malcolm alive. Ironically, Malcolm would have helped him the most in this situation. He would have profiled Alexia and known what to say. 

Thinking about it makes Gil smile. He didn’t realize how much he’d grown to depend on his profiler. It fills his heart with pride. Pride that slowly morphs into sadness because he never got the chance to tell Malcolm that. 

Gil’s smile drops for a second. Then determination sets in. While the guard’s threat had filled his heart with fear, guilt, and helplessness, it also made Gil realize that there is hope too. 

_Because Malcolm is still alive._

And Gil is going to do whatever it takes to save him.

  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a relatively short update! I hope it was fun to read. Alexia comes back next chapter :D


	8. The Callback

###  Chapter 8: The Callback

Tick tock.

Gil’s eyes follow the small clock pendulum as it oscillates, signaling the passage of time. It’s the only thing he can do while trapped in that small motel room. Nothing else can calm his nerves or ease the long wait. The feelings of fear, regret, and hopelessness are overwhelming, and he is stewing in them. 

Tick tock. 

The minutes’ arm is closing on its sixtieth round. Another hour that has felt like a century. Gil huffs and gets back to pacing around the room, wearing the soles of his shoes in the process. He’s a free man and yet a prisoner. His freedom doesn’t extend beyond the door, where an armed man stands guard, diligently keeping everyone out and Gil  _ in _ . Another car is parked down, keeping watch in case he tries leaving through the window. They have everything covered—no phone, no wallet, and no way to contact anyone on the outside world—nothing he can do but follow their instructions and wait. 

And wait,  _ and wait _ . 

It has been six hours since Gil slid into the backseat of that car. Six long agonizing hours of utter silence. Of fear and uncertainty. Alexia is leaving him to drown in his anxiety, to feel the enormity of his mistake. 

After two hours, the message was clear. The hope he had in the car was slowly turning into crippling doubt. 

What if he misunderstood? What if they hurt Malcolm? What if he’s already dead? Question after question raced in his mind, chased by even worse possibilities. There was no way out. 

By hour three, he tried to get Alexia on the phone. The guard posted outside wouldn’t help or allow him to leave. By hour four, he was trying to find a way to contact his team—which was also a fail. He wasn’t young anymore to jump out of windows and attempt dashing escapes. Attacking the guard won’t help either for two reasons. One. He can’t take him by surprise. And two. He’s not armed. 

As the sixth hour struck, Gil was a bundle of nerves and negative energy. He was starting to doubt everything, and his mind was playing games on him. Feeding him lies—lies that manifested into fears he couldn’t push away. 

So, he paces. 

Then the door to his room finally opens, and the guard silently hands him a small bag. Gil takes it carefully, contemplates the possibilities of it having something harmful. 

On cue, the bag starts ringing, and Gil’s heart leaps. There is a phone inside! It’s been seven hours since Alexia sent those texts in the courthouse and left him in the dark. He latches on the phone in an instant and opens the line.

“Gil,” Alexia's sultry voice greets him. “It’s been so long since our last call. I missed you.” She’s so carefree and relaxed in a way that makes Gil see red. 

“Where is Malcolm?” he shouts. “I want to speak with him, or you can kiss any chance of me cooperating to get your precious Vinny back goodbye!" 

“ _ Gil,  _ is this the right way to talk to a lady?” Alexia admonishes. “Come now, are you going to calm down and listen, or do I hang up? I don’t like angry men.”

Gil bites his lips to stop himself from speaking. The last thing he wants is for her to hang up. There is no telling when (or  _ if) _ she’ll call again if she hangs up now. After being left alone for hours, Gil can’t have that. He’s sick with worry about Malcolm, and he has to control himself for the kid’s sake. If Alexia wants to toy a bit, gain that sense of control back after what he did, then Gil will give it to her. 

“So, how are you?” Of all the things he expects her to ask, this isn’t it. 

Gil frowns, not sure what to say or, more specifically,  _ what Alexia wants him to say _ . He settles for the truth. “Let’s see, you kidnapped my profiler, threatened his life, blackmailed me, and now you’re holding me against my will in God knows where!  _ Where is Malcolm? _ ”

“Sounds like you’re doing great then?” She laughs, once again ignoring his question. Gil’s left hand starts shaking—a little tremor that mirror’s Malcolm’s when he’s stressed. _ The kid’s not dead, _ he coerces himself.  _ She won’t call you unless he’s alive. Malcolm’s not dead!  _

“You’ve now kidnapped  _ two _ NYPD officers!” Gil reasons with her. And maybe—just maybe she is so out of it that she doesn’t understand the kind of trouble she’s in. “Things will never be the same after this. You don’t have to add any more offenses to your roster.”

“Oh! I thought Malcolm is a profiler.”

“He is,” Gil says through clenched teeth, not liking where this is going. “But he works—”

“Okay, so he’s not _an_ _officer._ And, you’re not kidnapped, Lieutenant. You are sitting in a lavish motel room until your trial. You’re here by choice, Gil. That hardly qualifies as kidnapping. _Plus,_ you can choose to walk out whenever you want. _But, I know you don’t want to do that._ ” 

Gil clenches his hand and tries to calm down. She’s provoking him. He needs to steer the conversation back to Malcolm. “And I’ve been waiting as you wanted. Six hours waiting for your phone call. I need to know—”

“Yeah, I know, I know. But, I was  _ busy,  _ Gil _! _ Malcolm, here, has been such a _ naughty _ boy,” Alexia purrs. “So, I had to take care of that.”

The blood drains from his face. “What did you do?” he asks, and his voice is barely a whisper, his mouth suddenly so dry. 

“Nothing much! He makes the most adorable sounds, though. Have you ever heard him scream?” 

Gil’s legs buckle, unable to bear his weight anymore. Luckily, the table is next to him, and he grips it for support. The world stops, and he fights to gain control of his senses. Alexia is still on the phone, and he needs to talk to her. The words are out of his mouth before he stops himself.

“Malcolm had better be alive, or so help me there is nothing I won't do to find you and stop you,” the threat comes out more like a plea, and he hates himself for sounding like this.

“Relaaax, _ ”  _ Alexia laughs. “He’s still alive. I know I told you that you wouldn’t get a chance to say goodbye. But, oh well. I changed my mind. It’ll be more fun for you to be there when it happens.”

Gil’s heart beats furiously inside his ribcage, and he finds it harder to keep standing. Taking shaky steps to the sofa, Gil sinks in it and wishes he can say it felt better. It didn’t. He fights the waves of nausea as they keep crashing down at him. His detective skills are out of his reach—drowned by the intensity of emotions overwhelming him—and for a moment, he really doesn’t know if she’s saying the truth or lying. Talking to Alexia, hearing her voice, realizing how unhinged she is, makes Gil fear that maybe she  _ did _ kill Malcolm after all.

“ **I need** ...  **to speak** ...  **to him** ,” is all Gil can say. 

“You don’t trust me?” Alexia scoffs, feigning hurt. There is a click, and Alexia’s voice sounds further now as she speaks. “Fine, I’ll put you on speaker now so Malcolm can contribute.”

Gil takes a calming breath and tries to sound just a bit more confident and in control—for Malcolm’s sake. 

“Bright? Malcolm, you there?” Gil says tersely—part of him still believes that it’s a hoax by Alexia to torment him. Gil waits for Malcolm to reply, and surely he hears nothing. There is a faint muffled sound that can be Malcolm’s. Or, maybe Gil’s mind is playing tricks on him. 

The silence drags, and Gil’s hope crumbles down, a helpless whine escaping his lips. “...kid?”  _ Please, answer. Please, be alive.  _

Alexia gasps dramatically. “Ahh! Malcolm can’t talk yet. Let’s fix that.” 

There is a rustling sound, and then Malcolm’s voice comes through the speaker right away. 

“ _ Gil!  _ I’m fine… I’m okay.” Malcolm gasps out in urgency, trying, no doubt, to assure Gil that he’s alive. 

Gil lets out the breath he didn’t know he was holding. The sound of Malcolm’s voice had flooded his veins with relief so strong that he felt like he was going to pass out. Tears prick at the corner of his eyes, and the tremor in his hand somehow intensifies. He doesn’t know what to say, doesn’t even know if he  _ can _ speak. The brief moment of relief quickly morphs into deep guilt that suffocates him. Malcolm is in this mess because of him. 

Then Gil registers how hoarse Malcolm’s voice had sounded. He wants to believe it’s from disuse, refuses to think that it was because the kid was screaming—although Alexia has implied that, Gil is hoping against hope that she was lying to him. 

“See, I told you he’s alive. Unlike  _ you,  _ Gil, I don’t lie.” Alexia says, and for once, it’s like she didn’t even speak. 

All he can focus on is Malcolm.

“Did she hurt you?” Gil asks him, ignoring Alexia completely.

“No, I’m okay,” Malcolm says, and Gil knows the kid too well to know that this dismissive tone usually means he’s lying. 

“You don’t sound so okay, hon,” Alexia butts in again, and Gil wants to claw his eyes out. “Come now, don’t lie to Gil.”

The way she is speaking to Malcolm sets every cell in Gil’s body on fire. Before he realizes it, he is once again up and pacing the room like a caged animal, hand clenched so tight that it might actually draw blood. 

“ **I’m fine.** ” Malcolm grits out again—probably angry that Alexia has exposed his already exposed secret.

She says nothing. Then, Gil hears Malcolm’s breath hitching, and his heart drops to the floor. He stills and presses the phone harder to his hear, to decipher what’s happening. Malcolm’s in pain; that much is clear. She’s hurting him, Gil realizes, and Malcolm is trying to keep it in.  _ Dammit, kid! Always putting everyone else above him.  _

“Malcolm? Malcolm, What’s happening?”

No one answers. Gil can only hear Malcolm’s stubborn and futile attempts at keeping his pain at bay, and there is nothing Gil can do to stop it. The helplessness he feels is like a belt tied around his chest that keeps getting tighter and tighter. 

Gil tries to divert her attention. “Alexia! You called because you wanted to talk. Leave him, and let’s talk.” he desperately says.

“Not yet,” comes her curt reply. The sounds Malcolm is trying to keep in become louder and louder until he can’t anymore—he lets out a hoarse cry that tears Gil’s heart into pieces. He closes his eyes, relieved that Alexia has stopped and the tears fall down his face unchecked.

“That’s it,” Alexia’s satisfied smirk is audible above Malcolm’s pained gasps. “I like a stubborn man, Malcolm. But that’s because I like breaking them. Don’t fight me. Tell Gil what’s wrong with you. Can’t you hear he’s worried?” 

“It’s just a sprained shoulder.” Malcolm finally says. “Maybe dislocated, I’m not sure. You don’t have to worry about me, Gil. Like I said. I’m fine!”

His shoulder? God— _ no! _ “Are you—are...umm…” Gil trails off, unsure how to ask the question. Alexia is brutal and ruthless, and Gil senses that she wouldn’t care about his injury. 

“Gil?” Malcolm says, and Gil can hear the undertones of panic in his voice. It’s all the fuel he needs to blurt out his question. 

“Are you still standing?” Gil asks him and closes his eyes, waiting for the answer he knows is coming. 

“Oh, no,” Alexia replies for him. “I let him down because he behaved for me. But then he decided to run his mouth and ruin our fun.” She sighs audibly. 

“Bright?” Gil asks Malcolm because he wants to know from  _ him.  _

“No,” Malcolm replies, then gives him the summary of his condition. “I’m sitting down, still tied up,  _ obviously! _ and um... Yeah! Still can’t see!” 

“Because you look so good like that,” Alexia chimes in. “I heard your eyes could be  _ very  _ distracting.” 

“Right.” Malcolm says curtly. “It’s definitely  _ not _ because of your control issues.” 

“Is that so?” she challenges, and all signs of the humor in her voice are gone. The tightness that replaces it suggests that she’s going to hurt Malcolm for what he said.

“ _ Bright _ , stop talking!” Gil hisses. “Let’s talk about Vincent. Bright is just trying to provoke you. Ignore him. Let’s talk about the trial,” Gil says in a frantic effort to redirect her anger at him instead. 

“There is nothing to talk about, Gil,” Alexia snaps, and her voice is near and loud—she’s off the speaker, which means he can’t speak to Malcolm anymore. “You tricked me, and Malcolm is going to pay the price.”

“ _ No! _ Alexia, listen!” Gil pleads. He wanted to direct her anger on him, not cause Malcolm more pain. “It wasn’t his fault. Not mine either! The prosecutor moved my testimony forward. I didn’t even know.” 

Alexia doesn’t reply, and Gil hears her heels click on the floor as she moves. All he can do is wait and listen. 

“Gil thinks I’m stupid, Malcolm,” she says in a tone that makes the hair on the back of Gil’s neck rise. “He thinks I’ll believe this  _ obvious _ lie.” She huffs sarcastically. 

_ “Alexia,” _ Gil tries to say, but she’s ignoring him. 

“But it’s fine. He doesn’t really know me as you do,” she coos. “Right, darling? You’ve read my file, haven’t you? Tell Gil I am a smart woman and that he shouldn’t lie to me.”

Malcolm doesn’t speak, stubborn as usual, and Gil wants to shake some sense into him. Why can’t he just say anything to save himself the pain!

Alexia clicks her tongue, clearly unimpressed. “When will you learn that I get what I want? Apparently, Malcolm, you’re not that  _ bright. _ ”

This time, Gil hears Malcolm’s low yelp. Whatever’s happening is making him panic.

“Alexia, what’s happening?” Gil asks.

“Malcolm. Gil’s asking what’s happening. Why don’t you tell him?”

When Malcolm remains silent, she growls. “I. said.  **Tell. Him!** ” 

Then Malcolm speaks, and Gil’s world implodes when he hears the words. 

“She has a gun aimed at me.”

**Author's Note:**

> A million Thanksssss to the amazing [Hannah_BTWM](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hannah_BWTM/pseuds/Hannah_BWTM) for checking this fic!! I love you <3<3
> 
> I hope you liked it! Leave a comment if you did :)


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